


Pine Cone Child

by JokeringCutio (Breakingthestandards)



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Also parenthood stuff, Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Crossovers may occur, Dark Stuff, Enola and Sherlock being detectives, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, One-Sided Love, One-sided Linthorn/Enola Holmes, Raising a Child, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Siblings posing as a couple, Underage tag for Enola starting at age sixteen as in the film, Unplanned Pregnancy, based on the film, children are precious, happiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 73,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27329572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breakingthestandards/pseuds/JokeringCutio
Summary: When Enola and Linthorn fight in London, something inside of the hitman snaps. Now burdened with a child she did not ask for, Enola comes face to face with Sherlock. Can she cope with the prejudice, the stigma, the shame, and the guilt for knowing that she was the one who killed the child’s father? And more importantly, why is Sherlock so adamant on helping her out with the child?♤ Enola & Sherlock Holmes centred. Love and banter.♤ One-sided Linthorn & Enola. Angst.Follow me on instagram jokeringcutio for updates and fic snippets
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Enola Holmes/Linthorn, Enola Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 185
Kudos: 182





	1. How it came to be

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags and warnings. This story is all about Enola's predicament and how it ultimately also becomes Sherlock's predicament. Then again, there are some dark themes in it, there'll be angst, but there'll also be joy because this is about a Holmes child. 
> 
> AN: The explicit scenes have been deleted and replaced. It felt off with the rest of the story.
> 
> To those who have been following me for my Joker stories. I have put the "Princess and the Clown" on hold, but "The Man Who Claimed to Be Yours" will be updated eventually. I have things written down for it and won't abandon it, even if it has lasted about four months before I posted something again. Due to my health I have not been able to write, until this idea came out a few days ago. I hope this fic will help me get back into my writing frenzy so I can finish the other story as well.
> 
> For now, enjoy <3
> 
> \--
> 
> Hey, psst, if you are reading this on an app... WHY are you even? Did you know AO3 allows you to download this story in different formats for you to read? And it works on your phone flawllessly without an app as well. Also, the app you're using isn't an official one. It is one that is ripping stories without the author's consent. So I really do hope you're not paying to use this. If you feel like spending money, please consider donating something to my Ko-fi here: ko-fi.com/jokeringcutio instead of spending it on apps that are not associated with AO3 or the authors on it. Thank you! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of bad things that happened.

[](https://ibb.co/Jd7nWZt) >

\--

1

\--

Enola was not a girl who cried easily. But that day she could not withhold her tears. They streamed down her cheeks like unbidden friends while she ran away from the scene. What was she to do? And why, of everyone in this world, did her brother, _Sherlock_ , have to be there to witness her descend into sadness?

A lone mother, single, unmarried. Thinking of her own mother and the time they had spent as she grew from a child to a young woman filled her with hope. There was nothing wrong with being a mother with a child and no father to go along. Yet, they had had the money. And her mother had been married. In her own case, the child would be considered a bastard. Society would be judging, though that wasn’t her greatest fear.

Her concerns were more about where she would get the money to support herself and the baby – _if she even survived the birth_. Could she do her job properly with a whining child on her arm? Would people even hire her? God, she already knew the answer to that one. Being hired was already tough as it could be, merely for her being a young female. Disgusting really, when she came to think of it. She completely understood why her mother had sacrificed as much as she had, just to get the vote for women through. Her mother had wanted to change the world for herself and her own daughter.

Enola tried very hard not to think of herself as a failure in the eyes of her mother – if she ever were to find out about her fate. And Enola was certain that her mother would find out eventually. Yet, she had to remind herself that it was, after all, _not_ her own fault. No matter what anyone else would say about it.

But it was not only the thought of her chances for finding employment diminishing that worried her. Food was vital for survival, could she pay for it and earn it in an honest way if no one would hire her? She would get it. One way or another. That she was certain of. So even the most important thing in life, nutrition, wasn’t what worried her most.

There was a thought occupying her mind that was a hauntingly dark and far more disturbing one.

Telling your child there was no father was quite a thing on its own. But since her discovery of her pregnancy, Enola felt an odd sense of guilt creep up inside of her. Slowly, like a fungus, it spread inside her chest and she dreaded the thought that one day, this child would discover that it was fatherless because _she_ had _murdered_ him. Killed him in cold blood.

 _Self-defence_ , she thought to herself. _I had to._ But the tiny voice that had convinced her at first was now sounding more and more doubtful. And it became tougher to ignore.  
  
And so, it was a bad choice, coming here at this time of day without scouting first. As if she needed another concern added to her list of worries. Yet, it was part of a case she tried to solve. She should have anticipated for him to be here, should have considered the option and what to do if she came eye to eye with him. But blaming herself for running into her brother would get her nowhere. Nor would scolding herself for showing emotion after seeing how his eyes darted towards her chest and then abdomen.

_Deduction._

_Dread it!_

She knew the basics: how she bled every month and what it was meant for. That if there was a man involved it all culminated to an act of reproduction, which was an act she had not been planning for, not in a long time, _if ever_. Children or intimate encounters were not on her list of interests or wishes. In fact, the thought of them frightened her - and she found to her regret that they did so, _rightfully_. So technically, this could not and should not be happening. Not to her.

Her mother had shown her books. She had taken her aside for sharp talks and biological explanations. Enola knew that statistically, this was unheard of. And she had clung to that hope, to those statistics, that she would be as lucky as all these other women who had ended up only mentally scarred after a physical assault.

She found she was not as lucky.

Women did not often fall pregnant during their first time and many even had to try for months, if not years, to get into the phase she was currently at. And when she found out and realised the mess she was in, the panic of how to handle this situation set in. She _even_ contemplated going to her brothers for their support. _Can you imagine her desperation?_

But she couldn’t possibly ask her brothers to help her on this, could she? She knew how Mycroft reacted to her in general. No option there. And though she had her doubts about Sherlock’s view of her, she would not ever risk it. So seeing him now, with his sharp eyes and quick wit, was a disaster.

Enola quickly turned on her heels and fled from the staircase, running down the stairs of the inn. Behind her she heard the rustling of clothes as Sherlock rose from his knees to watch her flee.

Nothing was going according to plan.

\--

_~ Before ~_

If you ever encountered bliss, then you know how it feels. Linthorn discovered the feeling that faithful day, when he was tracing the viscount and encountered _her_ instead. He’d seen her before, in the crowd, had recognised her instantly. But this time, as he had tracked her, he knew that he had to corner her. She was his only lead.

Of course she would try and run, of course she would fight back as he started his interrogation.

The effect was unbidden. Her body pressing against his stirred emotions he had tried to suppress. The decision was made without thought as she struggled against him.

She did not see it coming, could not see it for her face was in the water he had pushed her in. He felt her struggle cease but gave it no thought while he lifted her skirts.

He learned many things that day about himself. Things that he could not be proud of, as the torturous interrogation he had started turned into _something else_.

“Ah, _delicious_ ,” Linthorn gasped and licked his lips, surprised at finding a new kink. _Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure._ He tilted her head out of the barrel when her struggling became less fierce, only to dunk her down again when he felt the life in her return.

And then, it was done.

_Who was this woman? Why did she pleasure him so? Why did she made him need this?_

He heard her breath steadying. She was preparing for something.

Linthorn tucked himself back in his trousers and was in the process of buttoning when she suddenly turned around. Her skirts fell down and flowed around her body like the petals of a flower. And she twisted, _oh how beautiful_ she spun on her heels. The anger on her face was so pure, as was the pained look of betrayal in her eyes.

She had headbutted him, a firm nod of her head was all it took. Linthorn fell backwards, a small trickle of blood seeping from his nose. Impressed by her successful strike, he watched her as she glowered down at him before she turned on her heels and fled.

 _Even after all that he just did, she managed to look him in the eye._ How brave. Linthorn had not imagined any woman to be capable of showing such fierceness, yet here she was. This young woman kept surprising him.

He followed her through the streets, away from the blacksmith's and further down the East End, unaware that she was luring him to a certain _shed_. Once inside he thought he had her cornered. Now what to do? Kill her, so there would be no witness? Capture her?

Expecting a harsh blow from her more than skilled hands, Linthorn raised a small knife. It was meant to intimidate her, to show her he was prepared to fight and to warn her not to hit him again. He could still feel the soreness from where she had struck him before he had managed to corner her and trap her against the barrel. Although he had liked the way she had delivered him pain – _could anyone truly like that? Had he discovered yet another dirty pleasure of his?_ – he wasn’t keen to have the fight repeated.

Before, he had been determined to take her out. It would be easy. With the young woman dead there would be no witnesses to know and remember his face. And perhaps she would finally stop haunting his thoughts and dreams. Never had a thought of fucking her processed in his mind. But now that he had felt her, his mind was conflicted after the feelings she had just given him. His body was still recovering from its high.

Could he kill her? Did he still want to?

He wasn’t as sure any more and it showed. Instead of striking, he stood waiting. And once again she was too fast and bested him. While he was distracted by his own mind, she threw something- he could not see quite what it was - at the table, causing an explosion. And Linthorn had to raise his arms in front of himself as a shield while she ran off.

Knowing that he was in a lair filled with explosive materials, Linthorn did the only thing he could do.

He ran.

_He ran and regretted that he still didn’t know her name._

\--

The encounter had left the dubiously moral Linthorn heavily conflicted.

 _Who was she?_ Where had she come from? Why had she helped the young viscount? Was there money involved that he did not know of? Surely, if it had been due to a romantic motive, the girl wouldn’t have been a virgin upon his touch. Why had she felt this good around his shaft? Why did she keep haunting his every day thought and every night dream?

And at the same time he felt dirty. He had done so many hideous deeds, but never once had he succumbed as low as to the deed he had done in the smithy. Why had he enjoyed seeing her suffocate? How could he have lost control? And with a woman so many years younger?

Was she even a woman?

That thought stilled him as well. He had assumed by the way she acted and dressed that she was a young woman of a dubious background. But upon realising her innocence, he wondered if he had miscalculated her in more ways than one. On the one hand, he thought, if she hadn't been a woman yet he had made her one now. An ironic thought that made him smile painfully. Because it still felt wrong. Here he was, a man already well into his forties, who looked worn by the way of life he had led. Was it in any way justifiable that he had taken something as precious and valuable from a woman who was clearly so many years his junior. Had she reached her twenties yet even? _Oh God, what had he done?_

The first time he saw her he instantly noticed that she was not a man, not even a boy. It had left him baffled to see her bravery – or was it foolishness?- when she and the young viscount jumped off the train right before they crossed the bridge. And he could do nothing else but look back at them in awe as they rolled off the hill and then stood up to dust their clothes, seemingly unharmed. How had they managed that?

Tracing the viscount after that had been tougher than he had expected. His employer had given him a handful of hints. He had visited the estate, seen the treehouse, traced his fingers down the papers riddled with clues. Yet finding the young boy was dauntingly difficult. And all the while _she_ kept playing in his mind.

Whereas finding the viscount was more difficult than he had anticipated, finding _her,_ however, was not. He saw her by coincidence in London's streets and would have recognised her gait anywhere. She tried to blend in, but failed miserably. And once again he stood frozen to the spot and could do nothing but watch her pass the town square, push her way through the crowded streets in a new fancy dress. But he recognised her hair, her face, her scent. And it did something to him; something odd.

Linthorn was a traditional man. Strict, content with the way society was, against any form of change, no matter how miserable his own life had been in the past. He had found a way to survive and he had embraced it.

He particularly liked the way society had divided the chores for men and women, and in that respect he was glad to fulfil the assignment for the dowager. If it meant he could stop the vote from falling in favour of change, it would only be a bonus.

There was some form of anger that had settled deep inside of him when it came to gender roles. Perhaps because he had felt bereft of a female's love for so long. Women were seen as less, and he had treated them like so. He sometimes paid them for pleasure, but that was as much affection or recognition as he wished to give them. They could never best a man at anything. A woman who did, angered him.

A young woman like _her_.

 _She_ had bested him. It should have angered him and made the task to silence her so there would be not witnesses even easier to do. But instead, he had felt a spark of pride in his chest, of admiration. _Why would he feel pride for a young whisp of a thing managing to hit him in the face and nearly dislocate his jaw?_ It made no sense.

And that feeling was followed up by a heavy doubt whether he wanted - or even could - kill her a next time he saw her. That girl had sparked an interest in him, a certain need for more of her. It wasn’t just sexual, although he was pretty sure that the experience of being intimate with her would never ever leave his body or mind. It was something on an entirely different level as well. Something he could not describe in words. She fascinated him. He felt bewitched by her.

But finding and trying to connect with her would be difficult. He didn’t even know her name. His best chances of seeing her again would be snooping around the city or hoping that she would still hang around the young viscount. That last thought did something odd to him as well, as it constricted something deep inside of his chest. Was that jealousy? Or just simply another shape of anger?

Anyway, he shouldn’t be feeling needy for that young mysterious woman. He was, as said before, a traditional man and she didn’t fit the traditional gender role. That his employer was a woman herself, well. If he had to be honest he didn’t quite mind who he was working for, as long as it paid well. He was for tradition and for serving his country – _but all to a certain point._  
  
 _Morally dubious he was indeed_.

He wasn’t a fair man and hadn’t been one for years. His personality might have taken a change for the worse ever since he had lost his wife as a young lad. After that he had fallen into depression, lost his job and had been dependant on doing the rougher chores in life for his survival.

It was how he had found out he was good at being unscrupulous. He was pretty good with a knife as well. Silent murders without witnesses became one of his specialities and one of the reasons the dowager had set her sights on him. So when the matter of the young Viscount of Tewkesbury popped up he had accepted the task with a fitting amount of pride. Because yes, he could do a discreet job in whatever environment he would land in. And yes, it would deliver him handfuls of money. Whoever could refuse that?

But this girl, _she_ wasn’t what he had signed up for.

Sitting down at the desk in the shoddy room he rented, he tried to distract himself with the daily news. But his eyes kept flitting to window, overlooking the busy street below. Whether it was his ever cautious gaze scanning the crowd for a sign of the viscount, or the even stronger silent wish to see _her_ again, it didn’t matter. He saw neither of his targets.

Among the crowd he did recognise one famous face though, but he thought nothing of it. This was no target. This was just a very famous man. _Sherlock Holmes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for big brother Sherlock to come and meddle with things.


	2. How a plan took shape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides to contact Enola after finding out about her predicament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've uploaded this after giving birth (well... c-section, I had help sorta) and being on painkillers. All mistakes are my own.

\--

2

\--

Sherlock was staring at the brightly lit fireplace of his current lodging, his thoughts like a soup; mingled and messy and hot. His little sister of only sixteen _. Pregnant_. Now that was a situation he had never thought of. Mycroft had, in a way. He had predicted that their wayward sister would let things get out of hand and act promiscuous. But Sherlock hadn't wanted to believe it, not after he had seen her brilliance.

However, there was no way that he was wrong in his assumption. He had seen her posture and had seen her slightly fuller bosom. And when his eyes had slid towards her abdomen her hand had flitted up protectively, one of those subconscious motherly gestures the body made without informing the brain that it would do so.

He had anticipated the day that he would see her again, but he had never imagined it to be like this. Enola pregnant?

_But by whom?_

One face came to mind instantly. A boy who was besotted with his sister and it only took one look at him to know how deep his crush ran. The viscount was the most obvious choice, so surely he must be the father. His sister wasn’t a nincompoop, she could not be from what he had seen of her. She was clever, thoughtful, contemplated her moves, deduced as easily as him. Imagining her like the flirt Mycroft had described her to be was incredibly hard, if not impossible for Sherlock to do. So how else could this have come to be if not with the silly boy who had been wandering after her, all lovestruck.

But had he been mistaken? Was she as promiscuous as their brother Mycroft had claimed her to be? Had he made a mistake in judging her character? Should they not have transferred the guardianship? Should he have allowed her to be send to that all girls school to shape her into a proper lady so that this 'disaster' could have been prevented and no shame would have been brought upon their family? Would none of this have happened?

 _Shame._ That is how Mycroft would think of it. For her to bring shame upon their family not only by not acting like a lady but by having a child in a way like this. As if the family name blemished mattered to Sherlock. He didn't care for such standards of society. And he could not imagine his sister acting without thought. But who knows? If she, like himself, did not care about what society would think, then perhaps she had deliberately gotten into this situation. She might have had her reasons. And Sherlock was pretty certain that whatever her motive had been, he would be able to deduce it.

It still wouldn't take away the fact that their family name would be blemished. Then again, the shame could still be prevented, if they acted quick and acted smart. There was one very obvious and simple solution at hand. The Holmes name could still be saved _if_ he could pair his sister up with the father. The father - _who had to be viscount Tewkesbury_ \- was easily found. Everyone knew where he lived. All it required was the right talk and the right convincing.

Sherlock thought he could manage the boy though. 

There was another minor issue that would not leave his mind. If the viscount was the father, then how did that explain Enola's tears? Had he rejected her? Left her? Gone to another?

Emotional, he had accused her of being so before. It was some kind of family thing, he supposed. None of the three siblings had been particularly good at showcasing their emotions, but Enola had always been ahead of them in this. Perhaps because she was a girl?

When she had ran away after seeing him, Sherlock swears he saw tears glinting in her eyes. She was crying. A protective hand on her slightly bulging abdomen, her swollen breasts, the frightened look in her eyes upon seeing him study her, her pulse quickening, her quick sharp turn and hastened retreat, the tears forming in her eyes – something wasn’t right.

Had the viscount rejected her? Had he took his pleasure and then left her to her fate like an infatuated boy who took no responsibilities? But if that were the case, could Sherlock convince him with words alone? Would logic be enough? Or would he need other words? Words he was less skilled in using?

Approaching the viscount on Enola’s behalf seemed like the most sensible thing to do. It would end their problems instantly, he was certain of that.

But perhaps even more sensible than approaching the young lord, would be to approach his sister in advance. She might have information for him that could help him solve the issue. And also, she was quite fierce and going round her back might not be the wisest move to make if he ever hoped of forming a sibling bond with her.

Sherlock was pretty sure his deduction was right. But that did not explain every minute detail he had noticed about his sister’s appearance and reaction upon seeing him. He was missing something, overlooking something obvious.

And the key to solving any and all problems? _Communication_.Deduction was second to that and only used when communication wasn't possible any longer. _It was a pity then_ , Sherlock thought, t _hat he was more skilled in the latter than the first._ But surely he must be able to manage a talk with his sister without screwing things up?

He sat down behind a piece of paper and reached for his ink. He needed to talk to her. Even if she did not want to be reached, even if she did not want to be found. It was vital that he knew all of the details before he took action and possibly screwed things up by interfering. That was the last thing he wanted.

But the time was ticking. A baby would not stay inside its mother safely forever. By the sight of it, the visibleness even if ever so slightly, he estimated that she must be at least several months in. It was her first, she was slender but wore clothes that hid her figure well when he spotted her. First pregnancies didn’t show as fast as second or even thirds. Here he interrupted his own thoughts upon realising the silliness of the situation.

 _He was deducing the time his little sister was into her pregnancy._ With a groan he leaned back in his chair and ran a hand past his face. This was one unlikely scenario that he never could have imagined before.

“Oh, little sister,” he grunted, his words but a breathless whisper leaving his lips. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

\--

She read the paper, of course she did. The code was as obnoxiously evident as it had been last time. The only difference was that it was not signed as mother but as S.H., including the dots in between the initials. Like last time when he had tried to lure her, she had her doubts. And like last time, she set out in a disguise, too eager to see what he wanted of her.

She had somehow anticipated for Mycroft to be there again as well, but despite carefully overlooking her entire surroundings she found no trace of him. Just Sherlock, waiting for her down the square. His reaction to her childhood pine cone pet last time had been baffling to her. He had picked it up, studied it, then laid it down without informing their brother of what he had seen. It had given her the hope that perhaps he was on her side, and the courage to turn up again now. But after what he had seen, could she still cling to that hope?

Or was he going to scold her? _Convince her to give the child away_? How angry would he be?

From her position across the square as a paperboy, she could easily observe him as he stood there, spine straight, overlooking the area. He struck quite the figure being tall and very much like a statue. His lips were clipped and his eyes were sternly set in front of him. For the first quarter of an hour or so, Sherlock stood unmoving. Enola used this time to observe and to think. But as time progressed, his posture slackened somewhat and Enola thought she could see a sigh escape his lips.

She wondered how long he would last this time.

It appeared that it was longer than the last, when Mycroft had told him it was of no use and guided him away. Sherlock’s endurance was praiseworthy. When over half an hour had passed and there had still be no sign of Mycroft or any other confidant that Sherlock seemed to have brought along, Enola decided it was safe enough to scoot closer. Sherlock had by now sat down on the ridge of low wall at the edge of the square. His gaze was still brooding and solemn, as if a great weight lay heavy within his mind. The expression alone was enough to sent shivers down Enola’s spine. But she had to know. She was too curious to ignore this call of his.

After an hour or so, Enola deemed it safe enough and finally approached her brother. She came to a halt in front of him and watched as his eyes travelled from her shoes to her head. Their dark gleam diminished and for a moment she thought she could distinguish relief in them, perhaps even delight. But then the brooding gaze returned and Sherlock’s expression was stern once more.

“Sister,” he said curtly, his voice sharp and short.

“Brother,” she returned, unbothered by the way she had appeared cross-dressed, covered in dirt and grime and smelling like a rat’s end. They thought little of her since they had met her. Why should she try for more decorum?

Sherlock’s lips twitched. _Was that a small smile?_ But as soon as she had spotted it, it was gone again.

“We need to talk.”

“I assumed as much,” Enola cut him short. She crossed her arms in front of her chest in an attempt to glare down at him. With her standing and him seated on the lower wall, she actually felt like she had some leverage over him. That she could be imposing. Usually he was the tall one, towering over her. Ah, she loved a bit of role-reversal. 

He looked up at her and clicked his tongue, but whether he was impressed or not she could not guess from this. “Well, yes. That is why I called you here. I am glad to see you got the message and deciphered it. Albeit we could argue about your _punctuality_.”

Enola tried to ignore that remark, although it still itched her. “I am just as clever as you are,” she decided to retort instead.

“It would seem so,” her brother consented, “as you were last time. I am certain you where there and decided not to show yourself. A wise move with Mycroft involved.” Enola was surprised by his comment and was pretty sure he could read that surprise on her face. Her arms lowered and she tilted her head slightly. “Or didn’t you think I had not spotted your pet?” Sherlock continued. “May I ask, where you dressed in the manner of a newspaper boy last time as well?”

What should she say? Give away her game? “What if I was?” She sharply retorted.

At this, Sherlock finally did show her a glimpse of a smile as he rose from the wall. “It is a good disguise. Made you blend in perfectly. Though,” here he hesitated as he made it a point to trace his eyes to her stomach again. She instantly covered it up with her arms, feeling indescribably vulnerable under his gaze. “You might want to consider your options _if_ a next time undercover mission occurs. Methinks you won’t last using this outfit much longer.”

And there it was. Enola had to take a deep breath to control her emotions – let’s just call it as it is: _rage_ – upon hearing her brother’s words. It was as she had feared. He had called her here after noticing her state. He knew that she was carrying, although he did not explicitely state so.

“I’ll find something that will do,” she hissed at him, suddenly feeling as if the ground beneath her feet was getting too hot and she needed to get away. Intent on fleeing, she made a move to walk past him when, to her surprise, Sherlock’s hand caught her wrist.

She spun around and locked eyes with him, only to find the harsh calculated gaze had softened.

“Enola, I need to know,” Sherlock started, his tone demanding and pleading at the same time. It was enough to quiet any objections she had wanted to fling at him for holding her from her escape. “Is there anything I can do to help you with this?” he didn’t even need to gesture for her to know he meant the unborn child.

It was surprising. She had anticipated a colder approach by her brother. He was, after all, not very well known for showing compassion or understanding when it came to matters of emotion. To hear him be considerate, to ask her if she could use his help, was something she had not dared to dream of.

Baffled by his words - she had banished the hope of hearing them since long, after all- she could not help but stutter in confusion. His grip still tight enough around her wrist not to let her go, but soft enough not to leave a mark.

“So, what?” She stammered. “So, is this like-? You want to sent me to some far away place so no one will know the smirch upon our family name? Is that what you called me for?”

As she said the words through gritted teeth, she could briefly feel her brother’s hand tighten around her wrist before he released his hold again. Now, with her arm free, she dangled it by her side and rubbed her wrist with her other hand. It didn’t hurt, but she still felt somewhat violated. Merely for the way he had grabbed her to keep her here.

“No, Enola,” Sherlock started, knowing he had to hurry with his words before she fled. “I just needed for you to know we transferred the guardianship. You’re under my care now. And I am not our brother.”

Enola was already twisting on her heels when she heard Sherlock’s almost pleading confession. Mycroft was no longer her guardian? She paused in her steps. It was long enough for Sherlock to understand he caught her attention, and she could hear him take a deep breath. _Relieved again_?

“I am your legal guardian now. At least until you come of age. And even then, if anything where to happen, you will always be able to count on me to provide for you. It is legally arranged.” Sherlock studied her as she slowly turned to face him once more. She knew she was looking at him pensively, as if not certain whether to trust his words yet.

“Mycroft made me your burden, then?” She hesitatingly asked.

To this, Sherlock let out a short, raw laugh. “If you wish to see it that way. In reality I pleaded him to let me take the guardianship. Let’s just say I saw your potential and disagreed with our brother’s dear intentions for you.”

Now that made a warm feeling spread across Enola’s bosom. Was her brother giving her a compliment? She wondered if it had been caused by her behaviour or by her intellect alone. But something had made Sherlock see the light. That was positive, right? Yet still….

“And what will your intentions with me be?” She had heard the tales of less fortunate women who were shipped off to some far away town where they would be hidden from the world, growing rounder as each day passed by. Then, when the child came out, they would be separated. The child sent to some godawful place where it was to never know of its heritage, while the mother would be returned home as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. _A spa vacation,_ Tthey would call it. _A holiday to get well of a mysterious illness_. Though she had not wanted to become a mother, let alone this early on in her life, and she held no fond memories of the father, she heavily wondered if she could be like those women. Shipped off and separated, and then continue on with her life?

_No._

It was her life and her decisions. And this was her belly and her child. And yes, the thought of cutting out the child had occurred to her before, but the mere fact that she knew it would be what her brother Mycroft probably wanted had made her think against it. Though she could imagine how women would want for such a thing, after all. The little parasite growing inside her made her stomach turn in the mornings, waste valuable nutrition, and seemed to be influencing a great deal of her body and mind. And yet...she felt torn. She recalled the happy times she had growing up with her mother - no father there. Had that been wrong? It had felt so right. And now, with her mother far away, could she be this happy again?

Sherlock had been watching the parade of carefully measured emotions in her eyes and had deliberately remained silent to let her progress her thoughts. When he saw the determination return to her eyes he knew he could talk again. “My intentions will be to honour your wishes. You have grown into, from what I have understood, a great detective. I should like for you to pursue that profession,”

 _Ah, here it comes,_ Enola thought bitterly. _To continue this profession he would surely suggest for her to rid herself of the child_. Her resolve hardened. She would not let her be told what to do by any man. Not even her own brother.

“But we both know a child would hinder that,” it was the first time he openly in words acknowledged that there would indeed be a child. That she was pregnant. That he had spotted her secret and her _disgrace_. She brought a hand to her hair, brushing a loose strand out of her face as she tried to keep her composure.

“What solution would you offer?” Enola knew she bit back the words rather harshly. Perhaps harsher than her brother deserved to be spoken to. Out of the corners of her eyes she observed the streets for signs of any other men that he could have brought. Would he drag her off the square forcefully? Would he have henchmen hired to bring her to some secluded place like she feared? But there was no sign of anyone else involved but him. Perhaps he had more honour than she had given him credit for.

“Well,” Sherlock started, matter-of-factly, “A _single_ woman is scorned by society. However, a _married_ and _well-established_ young woman can do and go wherever she pleases. Therefore,”

Enola realised where this was going and interrupted him with a high-pitched cry. “You’d marry me off like cattle?” _Perhaps he wasn’t unlike their brother after all._

With an enraged frown upon her face, she took a few steps backwards, eager to get out of his reach so she could get away if the conversation took another leap further into descend. But it was unnecessary. Sherlock did not reach for her, but she could see the pleading look return in his eyes.

“Enola, no. That’s not,” he hesitated and lifted his hat off his head in order to run his hand through his hair, visibly uncomfortable and at a loss of what to do. Enola watched as Sherlock struggled to find his words. “In a way, yes, and in a way no. If this is indeed resolved by a marriage, if it could save you and your dreams, then let me offer my help. I don’t know why any man in his right state of mind would not honour you by asking for your hand if you carried his child. If it would help for me to talk to Viscount Tewkesbury, then I will do so. I am sure I could convince him.”

Enola could hardly believe her ears.

“Viscount **_Tewkesbury_**?”

The words escaped her with such surprise that Sherlock’s eyes widened and his lips parted in shock.

_He realised he had been wrong._

“You mean to say,” he started, but then he changed his sentence halfway. “I thought if I could unite you and the father it would save you the disgrace and keep you in function as a detective….”

Now it was Enola’s turn to let out a hoarse laugh. “The father? You think _Tewky_ is the father of my unborn child?”

At this, Sherlock flinched. _Interesting_ , Enola thought. _So that was what he had deduced and now he finds he has been wrong._ She could not blame him for thinking along these lines. He had seen her with the young viscount, knew that she had been involved in his case and he had made presumptions. But more interesting than this predictable thought was seeing how he struggled to cope with the fact that his deduction had been wrong. He seemed to recollect himself quickly enough, but Enola had seen the glimpse of surprise on his face and the look of pained confusion following after. Her brother was truly shook by being wrong, she could tell.

“Is he not?” Sherlock knew he did not need to ask, but it just seemed polite. And anyway, _communication._ He wanted to hear it from her lips before his mind finally believed him.

“Sherlock,” Enola let out a bitter sigh. “If you want to unite me with the father you are going to have a difficult time.” Here she looked straight at him.

“The child’s father is _dead_.”

\--

 _Dead._ Now that would complicate matters, Sherlock had to silently admit.

Bending over the letter he was writing to Mycroft, he tried to get his thoughts straight but found it very hard. For some reason they were all jumbled, mixed, in the wrong place. After meeting Enola that afternoon it felt as if his world had been turned upside down.

Truthfully, the thing that stung most was that he had been wrong in his assumptions.

He had _never_ been wrong.

With his pride tarnished, and a little trace of doubt still lingering in his mind – _was Enola truthful when she said the viscount was not the biological father indeed?_ – he tried to write a letter that would hide the truth from their brother. But at the same time he was not one to lie. So how to write a casual sounding letter when his situation was anything but? Here he was, normally being such a clever man with his words. The whole situation of their sister had shook him badly though. And Mycroft was clever, so how to spell things without giving their current position away?

Enola. Sixteen. Full of surprises. Great at deduction. Making a name for herself as a detective. Being successful. Solving cases at a similar pace to his own. All facts.

But also, Enola, his younger sister. With child. With no father. As a runaway. With little to no money unless he provided her. Also facts.

He knew she wouldn’t want to take his money. She wanted to be independent and self-reliant. And he knew that she could be, if society would let her.

Because that’s the third column he made inside of his mind. Society. Difficult finding a job for women. Unmarried women with children are shunned. The child: some sort of bastard. Her options: **limited**. Also facts.

And those three rows of facts made his head ache. He massaged his temples and groaned. The case of his sister seemed to be more troublesome than any other case he had ever cracked. But that was simply because there was no easy answer to the question in case: how to solve his sister’s problem?

Instead, there were many paths they could walk. But he also knew that many were blocked before they could be walked upon because of his sister’s stubbornness.

He could, of course, still try and see if the viscount wanted to marry his little sister anyway. The boy seemed eager enough in love with her.

But no. He shook his head in silent contemplation. His sister had made it very clear she did not hold the intention to find a husband, let alone force husbandry upon someone. He could understand how she did not wish for that to be forced upon on a boy she well liked but who was in no way biologically involved in the – what she called- _Holmes disaster_.

And was it? Was a child _a disaster?_

Sherlock felt conflicted about it. On one hand, the child would be seen as a disaster by society and even by their own brother Mycroft. But on the other, if Enola’s child had been a legitimate child from wedlock, then it would be seen as a blessing instead. Such a paradox for such a tiny barely living creature.

A child in marriage would be seen as a blessing. In any marrriage. Even his own.

Suppose _he_ would have a wife and a child. Then the outside world would view him as favourable. Their child would be a treasure. That is fact.

But if he would impregnate a female without her being his bride, then the child would be an outcast. _The woman too,_ he thought bitterly. And it was quite a thought, for never before had he even contemplated the fate of women who were left with child but no husband. He would be saved by the privilege of being a male who could earn his own and whose body would not change by the carrying of a relative. His reputation would not be besmirched in the same way as that of a woman. _As that of his sister._

And Enola was his sister, no matter how things were twisted and turned. His blood. His to protect. And he was doing a lousy job, had been doing so ever since she was a child. How could he have abandoned her and their mother? Just because it wasn’t pleasant at home? Just because he found his luck in the cities solving crimes?

He had slowly begun to understand their mother and the choices she had made. He slowly understood why she had disappeared from the earth and had chosen not to be found by them, by _him._ Because he suspected that if Enola tried, their mother would reach out to her. Enola was a wonderous creature. Clever, intelligent, resourceful. She had proven time after time again that she could hold her own.

Which was why her current predicament _puzzled_ him.

Surely someone as clever and brilliant-minded as Enola would have considerd the consequences. The act seemed unlike her.

Still, Sherlock was relieved to hear that Enola would take him up on his offer to visit him tomorrow. He had given her his current address and pleaded her to come visit. He had promised that they would think of a solution together, and that if all she needed of him was money he would offer it to her. He would do whatever lay within his capacities to help her. Of course he knew that his intentions were honourable, but now he had to find a way to convince her of his honesty. And even if she wanted nothing of him but the use of his brain, then he would agree to that too. He would use his mind to think along with her.

_Because all he wanted was to save her from losing her dreams._

In that way, she reminded him too much of himself. He too had held dreams and he too had been able to make them come to life. Now that she was on the verge of success, having it ruined by something as trifle as a gender inequality and social prejudice seemed painfully unfair.

She was his sister. And her child would be _a Holmes._

_Wait._

A small smile creeped upon Sherlocks face at that thought. _A Holmes_. “Of course,” he muttered to himself.

His mind was reeling, his thoughts which had been jumbled finally managed to piece themselves together to form a coherent plan. No matter what society would throw at them, he would have her back. And he had just figured out how to do so.

A low chuckle escaped his throat, and with renewed vigour, he leaned forward to write the promised letter to Mycroft. _One without lies._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Sherlock informs Enola of his 'brilliant' plan.


	3. How a plan was brought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock explains the 'brilliant' idea he came up with, and Enola can't believe her ears.

[ ](https://ibb.co/y8RKShN)

\--

3

\--

_Dear Brother,_

_Hereby the letter I promised upon your persistence.  
I have taken on a new case. It seems to be a more challenging one than I ever took on before. But you know me, I do love a good challenge.  
On our dearest sister, whom you keep inquiring about: the latest report I received recounted her successes as a detective.  
Consider your family blessed._

_Your always devoted brother,  
S.H._

Enola eyed the letter warily. She had not even bothered to ask Sherlock whether she could read it or not. She’d seen the initials and address on top of it and opened it up without hesitation. But unless there was a secret code in there that she had somehow not managed to crack, she found nothing that gave away either her whereabouts or her predicament. In a way she should be grateful, she thought, that Sherlock seemed to be keeping his word and handled her situation with care and the privacy it required.

“I suppose you will have a comment?” She could hear Sherlock ask from behind her.

“Only that it seems a lot of words for you,” Enola replied cheekily before she lay the letter back on the desk and turned to face him. “But I suppose it is short enough. And it’s most certainly to the point.”

“He need not know of our case,” her brother replied casually. He was still standing after having let her in, but when he saw how Enola took place on the chair next to the desk, he followed her example and sat down on the couch that his rather luxurious room had to offer.

“I suppose I am your newly undertook case then?” Enola teased, raising an eyebrow cheekily as she did so. Her hands rested in her lap but her fingers were wiggling against each other. “I’ll take it as a compliment to hear that I pose a challenge to your intellect.”

Sherlock leaned with his elbow on the couch’s armrest and brought his fingers to his lips thoughtfully. But there was a playful hint of a smile that Enola spotted there as well. “You keep proving to be my equal, little sister.”

“I beat you on the Tewkesbury case,” she reminded him.

 _Was that Sherlock flinching? Hah, now that felt good!_ She decided to up her game. “I can beat you again.”

“Don’t count on it.” She watched as Sherlock fell silent. The both of them were studying the other like they were subjects of a distinct species in a museum.

“You asked for me to join you here today. I must say, I am surprised,” Enola took the initiative. “For a moment I had thought it to be a trap concocted by you and Mycroft. Or is that the case still? Could any moment some strong men enter the apartment and drag me away?”

Sherlock let out a restrained laugh and shook his head. “Dear sister, no. That’s not what I have planned for you.”

“But you have planned something,” she quickly retorted, noticing the way he had phrased his thoughts.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock’s playfulness made way for his stern, trade-mark expression. “I invited you here because I care about you, Enola. Not just because you are officially under my care, but because you are my sister. My own flesh and blood. Like you carry a Holmes flesh and blood within you at this precise moment.”

The wording twisted something inside of her and Enola looked down at her stomach and the little bump below. She had not thought of it as such. _Blood, bones, human tissue_. But it was _fact_. And what if this child resembled _a true Holmes_? Would that be a blessing in disguise? For now that she came to think of it, a child she recognised as an insufferable know-it-all would be a million times better than a child who resembled its father in nature and looks. A male she had hardly known but for his ominous deeds.

“I wanted to get things straight before I suggest my ideas. Will you confirm once again that this child isn’t that of the viscount?”

Enola’s eyes flew open wide upon her brother’s question. And without much thought she exclaimed ‘Goodness no!’

“And the child’s father is, according to you, deceased?” he continued.

Enola nodded. “Raising his child will be difficult from the grave,” she drily remarked.

 _And good riddance he’s gone too,_ she thought silently to herself. Just thinking of the hitman sent shivers down her spine. She’d never truly known his name or identity. The dowager had protected him, even in his death. But she recalled his lopsided smile and the way his eyes sparked in the dark as he looked her over like she was another object merely intended for his lust. He had been an evil man, and he had acted accordingly. It was better that he would be dust.

“You still adhere to the idea that you do not wish to marry or seek a husband to cover up the matter?”

She scoffed at her brother’s question. “I thought your brain was so excellent and here you ask me everything I told you before. Is it your mind lacking or are your ears impaired? Surely you have not forgotten overnight what I told you I would and would not do?”

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not that I do not recall what you’ve said. As you can hear I remembered it all correctly. I just want to have it all confirmed.”

“So what?” Enola snapped at him. “What would you do with this information?”

“Process it,” her brother honestly replied. “And use it to think.”

“If you are such a genius you would have come to a conclusion already. Tell me, Sherlock, what solution do you have in mind? Because you already know mine. I can stand my own. I don’t want to _need_ your money.”

“And yet you are desperate for a helping hand,” Sherlock interfered, and Enola quickly shut her mouth. He was right though. Although she had not expressed it, she wasn’t quite sure what to do or where to go from here. But she knew that of all the options in front of her, there were some she was unwilling to take.

“I will not force a decision upon you, sister. But I do wish you will hear my thoughts,” he waited for her to give a signal for him to continue, which was considerate of him, she thought. With a small nod, she urged him to continue. She felt the tension in her shoulders but tried to force herself to relax.

“The way I see it, your position will only be secure if you are either married or no one knows of the child at all,” here Enola began to stutter in protest but Sherlock raised his hand as a gesture to silence her, and it worked. She bit her lip and frowned angrily at him, but quieted down.

“Now I know that neither seem to be an option. But I would like to present a new idea. A third option, as you will,” knowing he held her attention, he quickly continued. “As a brother, I have failed you in the past. When you needed me the most, I was gone. When you needed my support you found it was lacking. I want to change that, dear sister. And I want to be there to care for you and the child when it comes. I want to make sure I will not ever fail you again.”

 _Now that is going to be tough_ , Enola thought bemused as she watched the seriousness in Sherlock’s eyes. He meant it, he held regrets and he wanted to do good this time around. _But how,_ she wondered?

“My suggestion is for you to move in with me,” he then said, not bothering to enrich the idea with sweet words to persuade her.

Enola felt her jaw drop.

“Wait, what?” That did not sound like a _liberating_ idea after all. Living with her brother? So he could keep a close eye on her, right? It sounded more like _imprisonment._

“Yes,” Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t noticed the dismay that lay openly displayed upon her face. “You could come and travel with me. When the child becomes too large we can hold a rest in my apartment in Baker Street until the child is born. From there we can find a way to cooperate and work on cases together.”

“What?” It was the only word Enola managed to repeat, still not certain that she could believe her ears. _Was Sherlock earnest?_

“Now I know I have never introduced you to my host, nor have I ever mentioned my sister in company. So that will leave only Mycroft, mother, Mrs Lane who still looks after the house and of course, Lestrade. Mother has vanished from society, so I doubt she will cause a danger to your identity. Mrs Lane is in no way capable of taking part of society within the city, as she is still part of our hometown. So I doubt she poses a danger to expose us. That leaves us with Mycroft and Lestrade. But I suppose with a little bribery we can persuade the latter. As for our brother, he would be foolish to give away the truth when it would besmirch our family’s name in the way he so dreaded since the very start.”

“Excuse me, what?” Enola watched as Sherlock tightly clipped his lips together and frowned at her, realising that he had rattled off an entire list without exactly describing the type of list it was. But Enola could guess what had taken process in his mind.

“You want to take me on as a travel partner?” She said, her voice slightly raised. But then she lowered it, which made her sound even more dangerous. “You want us to go and solve cases together while under the hood of a married couple?”

Sherlock stared at her blankly. “Isn’t it the obvious solution?”

For a moment there was a beat of silence between them. Just the stare they shared and Sherlocks unmoving nonchalant posture. Then, Enola threw her hands up in the air and let out an exasperated sigh.

“Have you lost your bloody mind?” _How on earth could he think this plot to work?_ she wondered. _Had he truly lost his marbles?_

“People do not know you are my sister,” Sherlock continued as if his theory was the most logical one in the world. It probably was in his mind. He stretched his legs in front of him and crossed them at the ankles, showing that he was rather relaxed under the current conditions. “If they will see us together they will assume you are my wife.”

It _did_ sound logical, Enola had to admit that. People assumed a lot of things and let their minds be run by prejudice. Enola on her own would rouse suspicion. Enola on her on with a baby on her arm would earn her scorn. But Enola standing next to a man would have society whisper that they must be involved one way or another. The first thing they would assume was for the man to be her partner. Would they guess he was her brother instead?

“But Sherlock,” she hated how much his name came out as a whine. He was convincing her, at the very least of the way people would view them. Whether or not this was a proper solution to her problem she wasn’t as certain of yet. There were too many dangers across the road, and it would not be as simple as Sherlock implied it to be. “There are more people who know who I am. Take for instance, mother’s friends. How about Edith?”

“She can be persuaded to keep her tongue,” Sherlock said it with such finality that, for a moment, Enola feared he held the intention of silencing the woman by means of murder. Though she knew her brother would not be capable of that. “It would be in your best interest if this remained a secret to the outside world, as it would be for your child. Whyever would she betray your trust?”

Bringing the argument this way, Enola had to agree to a certain degree that he made sense. “So you suggest, in all your brilliance, that I can continue my ambitions as a detective and be a mother at the same time without being scorned and shamed upon? And all of that by faking to be your wife rather than your younger sister?”

She glanced at him through her eye-lashes, studying his expression which seemed to soften a little at her words.

“Yes,” his voice was a low whisper and she took a moment to ponder his words in silence, watching him as he watched her.

“You want me to pretend to be your woman in order to save our good name and protect the child from being seen as an outcast?”

“It’s an option and to me, the one with the most success. No forcing a marriage, no being disgraced. And on the plus side you get to crack cases with me and I’ll always be close to provide you and the child protection and lodgings.” Here he paused and seemed to muse about something before he added, “And food on the table. Think of me as a surrogate _dad_.”

At that, Enola let out a laugh she could not hold. “You? A father? God be gracious to us, please!” She rolled her eyes and shook her head, but a small smile was still plastered on her lips.

“Nothing changes much,” Sherlock said, “They can still call you Enola _Holmes_. Only Mrs Holmes instead of missus.”

“Sherlock, you are my brother,” Enola started, not certain where to begin to unravel this lunacy of logic.

“Is this your child, or not?” Sherlock cut her short. 

Enola huffed, “How can you even ask such a nonsensical question? You have eyes, Sherlock. And I am led to believe that you have a brilliant mind and a knack for deduction, so surely you must be able to see where this child is currently residing. Unless I am mistaken, babies grow in their mother’s womb. Have I and the others been misled to believe you are an intelligent man?”

Sherlock held a small smile at seeing his sister this angry. “Well then, so it is a Holmes. And with no father to give the child its name, I think it’s only fair to have him or her raised a true Holmes. And who could do so better than you and I, dear sister of mine?”

Enola flinched at the endearment, but had to silently admit that his solution, though not ideal, sounded like the least intrusive to her lifestyle as of yet. In an odd way, she trusted her brother. Not Mycroft though, he was different. He lacked the brilliance Sherlock had and that she had. Being with Sherlock could provide her that safety, it could provide her with the stability one needed with a child – a steady income, food, a place to sleep and no eyes to judge her wrongly. With him she could crack cases and learn from his style, improve her own skills by observing his. She could see the benefit from this arrangement and felt like they would make a tremendous pair solving crimes and mysteries.

“Suppose I would agree to this deceit,” her words came out slowly and meticulously. She could see how Sherlock slowly gave a nod, a sign he was pleased that she was at the very least considering his proposal. “Suppose I would partake in this façade,” Enola licked her lips and tilted her head to the side. “Would you have me at home with the child once it’s born? Or would I be able to come along to the cases given to us?”

Sherlocks lips twitched upward. _He knew he had her._ “Mrs. Hudson is a very skilled guardian and a woman I trust with my life. She has looked after children with the greatest of pleasure. I suppose the only risk _our child_ will have is that of being spoiled too much. She loves biscuits, after all.”

Now that seemed to convince Enola, for a smile broke through no matter how carefully she tried to hide it from him. “I suppose I will need to think on this,” she said, not ready to agree instantly to the idea without giving it the consideration it needed. “It is rather a big change, brother.”

“I would beg to differ, sister,” Sherlock retorted, still with that ghost of a smile tugging the corners of his lips. “I think it provides hardly a change at all. You do what you love doing and do best. You remain a Holmes in name and all.”

“But Sherlock,” Enola replied with a sigh and a shake of the head, “there is a change after all. Can you go from brother to father for all this?” As she said it, she gestured at her abdomen. Her hands hovered near the bump.

Sherlock’s eyes flitted down to where the baby was forming deep within her belly.

“Like I said before, Enola. This is the most interesting case of them all.”

\--

Back in her own lodgings, Enola sank down on her knees and rested her elbows on the bed. She groaned as she closed her eyes, head resting against her own wrists. Flashbacks of the past few months plagued her mind’s eye, showing her glimpses of the man with the bowler hat, his wicked lopsided smile and his determined face when he advanced on her. She could still feel the suffocation as the water started to fill her lungs. She still recalled how clever she had thought herself to be to pretend to cease struggling so he would slacken his grip on her, only to be fooled by his wickedness.

She recalled the feel of him breaching her, of the sticky cum left trickling down her thighs.

And now this man – nay, this demon – was on the brink of ruining her life. Yet, here came Sherlock like an archangel, offering himself at her service. The child would be safe under his care, she knew he would be. Whether she fully trusted him or not remained to be seen, she had not truly known her brother for many years after all. But taking his offer would at least provide her with an answer to one of her pressing questions: that of how to tell her child about their father. In the end, she would not have to tell that she murdered him after all. She could still recall how it had felt to lock her legs around him in that dark hallway of the viscount’s manor. To see his surprise, and then hear him fall. The ugly crack of his skull as his head hit the ornamented pine cone full on. _Ironic_ , she thought, _how her life started out playing with a pine cone pet, and how his life ended with a wooden pine cone ornament. Symbolical, almost. Like she had to be the one to end him._ His voice – that would still haunt her in her dreams where he whispered her name – as he declared that he served his country still managed to sent shivers down her spine.

She had done it to save Tewkesbury, whose life was very important when it came to the matter of the vote. But she had also done it as a way of revenging herself. She wasn’t as powerless as he had made her feel that time when he had nearly drowned her in the barrel for his own pleasure. And besides, death had seem a nice alternative to dismemberment – a thought she had toyed with ever since he had forced himself upon her.

Of course, Enola had not known of her predicament at the time. She might have had a few clues given to her by her body, but she had blamed it on the stress. And once she did figure out that not only her period was late, but she had other signs and symptoms, well… he was already dead and gone by then. And she could not find it in herself to regret that fact.

Although, when she thought of it lately, she felt a nagging doubt whether or not she was ready for this. All of this. A young woman, not that much different from the girl she was before, except that she had murdered a man. She wondered what Sherlock would say if he ever found out. Did he know already?

 _He must,_ Enola deduced, for he had been there with Lestrade informing about the crime scene.

Or, so she suddenly realised, had the dowager’s silence been transferred to him instead? Perhaps Sherlock knew not of the assassin sent after the viscount. Perhaps he did not know of his end? Perhaps all he knew was of the threat on the viscount’s life and the way it had revealed the dowager, his own grandmother, to be the criminal mastermind behind the assassinations?

She rubbed her temples and let out a small cry of frustration. “What to do?” She called to no one in particular.

Deep down inside of her, a little body turned and twisted. It was the first sign of life that she had actually been able to feel, and, amazed, she lay her hand upon her tummy in the hopes of catching the movement once again.

“I know, baby,” she whispered with a sigh. “Sherlock’s outrageous idea seems to be our best option after all.” At this she snickered, a smile sliding over her features.

“You’ll help us crack this case, won’t you? It seems there’ll be a little Holmes after all.”

As a reward, she was awarded another little kick.

It was enough to make up her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, will their plan work or will Mycroft go against them?


	4. How they made a start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enola and Sherlock enact their plan but Enola receives a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't write detective cases but love reading about them. And so I encourage other writers to expand on this tale and write pregnant Enola solving cases with Sherlock scenes. Like, Enola kicking arse and then having to stop a moment to vomit, or occasionally turning nauseous because of a scent she smells, or simply trying to protect that pregnant tummy. She'd be a kickarse pregnant detective for sure. And how would Sherlock respond in such a situation?

\--

4

\--

“And I tell you, this is for the best!” Enola glowered at her brother, both were standing in the doorway of his apartment at Baker Street 221B. Mrs Hudson was looking at them worriedly from the hallway. Sherlock had been right about her, she was a dear. Her concerned cry made them pause in their argument and turn to look at her.

“You should not vex your lady so much!” Mrs Hudson cried, scolding Sherlock as she hurried to Enola’s side. The older woman placed her hands on the girl’s shoulder and, like a concerned mother hen, drew her closer. “Sherlock, think of the child! If Enola wishes to remain at home, then let her be. She needs the rest. The baby does too.”

“And I need her eyes,” Sherlock grunted, still stoic and stubbornly tugging at Enola’s wrist. But at this very moment, with her belly heavy of child, Enola wasn’t in the mood to indulge him. She tried to wrestle her arm free, which she did with success. He never held a very tight grip on her.

“It seems your eyes are just fine,” she snarled her retort. But he would not have it.

“You know what I mean. I need you there with me for the details.”

“And I keep telling you that your wife needs to rest. Let her retire,” Mrs Hudson interfered again. It was visible by Enola’s expression that she had wanted to defend herself, but apparently she was too knackered to actually make a fuss about it, and instead, accepted the woman’s defence. “If you so need her skill then by God, Sherlock, wait till the morrow. For now, let the poor dear rest.”

Enola glowered at him in silence. Mrs Hudson next to her was posing a similar display. Eventually, Sherlock gave up. His shoulders slumped and he hung his head.

“It’ll be my first case without you in months,” he admitted hoarsely.

How they had come to this point, neither knew. After his proposal it had took Enola less than a day to gather her belongings, leave her lodgings and settle in with her older brother at the place he was staying. She agreed, laid down some terms of her own – she needed to ensure her own liberty and independence in this farce of a relationship - and she had gotten all that she requested from him and more. The result was that they were now staying at his apartment in Baker Street from where they had been operating as a detective duo. And to Enola’s delight her brother had taken her on any case that had followed. But as the months towards the birth drew closer, Enola felt more and more tired. Carrying around the weight of the child – how the hell did she gain so much weight when hardly any food or drink would stay inside her stomach? – had become increasingly cumbersome and she now often had to hold her belly with two hands to support the ever gaining weight.

 _Well, not much longer,_ she comforted herself. But till that time, she could not imagine herself going out 24/7 to help Sherlock solve crimes. Her fatigue would not allow her. _So this is how it feels to be the woman who wants to stay at home_ , she reluctantly thought. Never before had she thought she would want to miss a case – and she still didn’t want to miss one to be honest. But when it came to investigating or sleeping, it currently was _sleeping_ she preferred.

Accepting defeat, Sherlock took a step back up the stairs to press a featherlight kiss to Enola’s cheek. “I’ll see you later, then,” he murmured near her ear. “Don’t stay up.”

Although the motion was sensitive and sweet, and even made Mrs Hudson go _aww_ in the background, Enola couldn’t help but retort: “I wasn’t going to anyway,” which sounded snappy and cheeky at the same time. But they both knew that it was more of a tease.

Sherlock smiled at this, albeit it being a pained smile. Apparently he had grown as accustomed to her presence as she had to his. _Separating actually hurt._ Enola had not thought it possible to miss someone this much before. She’d only ever truly missed her mother. Missing Sherlock, _that was new._ But she felt it now as she saw his forlorn expression while he walked down the last few steps and onto the road.

How had she gone from not really knowing this man who was her brother, to not bearing to be without his presence?

She didn’t know, but she allowed for Mrs Hudson to escort her back up the stairs to her apartment and gratefully accepted a cup of tea from her hands while she sat down on the couch to relax her tired legs and sore back.

“He is such a sweetheart,” Mrs Hudson commented from her position by the kettle.

Never in a billion years had Enola imagined _that_ description to fit her older sibling, who had always appeared so stoic and emotionless. But she had to admit that Mrs Hudson made a point. Her older brother had appeared to be surprisingly caring – in his own way. And she felt a little flutter of pride in her chest whenever she thought of the success of their deceit. Because when people viewed the two together, they indeed ‘assumed’.

And Enola had never in her life received so many compliments and well-wishes. _Now that was something she could get used to_. ‘Hey, you look well’, ‘such a nice couple’, and a simple ‘congratulations’ on the pregnancy, it all felt flattering. The compliment she liked most was that of how great a team the two had been making.

Despite Sherlock’s cold exterior, his stiff upper-lip and rigid posture, there was a warmth that shone from his heart. And as the months progressed, Enola found that her brother’s wish to take care of her and the child was a honest one. He showed it in his gestures, in the way he kept her close and the way he helped her to the doctor’s to check on the child’s health. If anything, Enola thought he grew more and more concerned with her and the child with every day that had gone by.

They even had Mrs Hudson fooled.

 _Yes,_ the whole of London was now convinced that Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, married to a certain Enola.

It was hard for people not to know, she reflected with a sigh. Because in light of their recent successes, not just word had spread about the problem solving couple, but she’d also seen their names in several of the news articles. _Sherlock and Enola Holmes find stolen jewels. Sherlock and Enola Holmes rescue Captain’s daughter from a fire. Consulting Detective couple Holmes save the day once again._

She just wondered how long it would take before their brother Mycroft would find out. She had somehow expected him to have written to them about it. Perhaps come in person to complain. Perhaps even to ask them to keep a low profile. She could already imagine how red his face would be and how swollen his neck when he angrily demanded for them to stick to decorum. The thought was actually funny.

Lestrade already had found out about them, and they had, as Sherlock had advised them to do, bribed him only the week prior.

_Well, it had worked._

“Perhaps this does work out for the best after all,” Enola murmured, to no one in particular but her own thoughts.

“Does what work, dear?”

“Nothing,” Enola quickly replied to the woman by her side. She forced a small reassuring smile. “Just me staying at home and letting Sherlock go off on his own for once.” Mrs Hudson seemed to buy it.

Mrs Hudson was as overprotective and as caring as Sherlock had warned Enola to be. And although normally she would not have the patience to deal with the woman’s kindly intended comments and constant offers of help, this was not a normal situation. Enola felt very much not herself.

Firstly, she felt that her emotions were now all over the place. If Sherlock had teased her about them before, he was surely astonished by the emotions she showed now. Weeping (either of joy or of sadness, one could not say), laughing, growling in anger – there seemed to be no emotion that she didn’t possess in her range. And to top it all off she seemed to be in no way capable of exerting any form of control over them. Her emotions ran wild, and to be truthful – she couldn’t care less.

Because secondly, she was tired most of the time. Yes, that belly was a heavy weight to carry around with her all the time and it needed more and more support as time passed by. But on top of that, the fatigue had plagued her since the very first month. She had hoped for it to become more bearable, and at one point it did. But now, near the end of the carrying term, she had grown even wearier than before and she felt like she wanted to sleep most of the day away.

Which brings her to the thirdly, she felt like she couldn’t possibly be any grumpier than this. This must be her limit (or so she hoped it would be). Add the tiredness, the emotional rollercoaster, the whole strain the pregnancy had on her body and mind, and she was truly and utterly uncaring about whatever happened next. Her career? Whatever. Another mystery to solve? Come back tomorrow.

So for once, she let Mrs Hudson be the mother hen the woman had been born to be, and she let herself be led to the couch, fluffed and comforted, and enjoyed the tea (which was more water than tea at this point but that’s another of the downsides of pregnancy nauseousness) that the housekeeper gave her.

The two of them discussed literature and art for a few good hours until their teapot was empty and Mrs Hudson set out to brew some new.

Relaxing on the couch with a nice set of pillows behind her back and her legs propped up on the table in front of her, because screw lady-like modesty (who else was going to spot her like this but Mrs Hudson and she was too kind to comment on it), she waited for Mrs Hudson to bring her another cup of watery tea. _That was when the doorbell rang._

Although she wanted to get up, she already saw how Mrs Hudson signalled at her to stay put. It was common habit to want to do things for herself but there comes a point when she had to give in and admit defeat and as said before, this was that point.

And so Enola sat back down and waited for the voices from the hall below to reach her.

She couldn’t quite make them out, but one seemed rather low and demanding. Familiar, perhaps. She raked her brain to think of who it could be. Someone connected to their current case? Nah, those were women mostly and their current employer Dr Brown sounded like one as well. Very high-pitched voice. She wondered if he could do a soprano voice in an opera. She thought he must give it a try once.

One of their former cases perhaps? Could it be Sir David Henry Friston, the man who had hired them to solve the case of the illustrious illustrations? Or could it be the harsh voice of Captain Saintclair, who had recently hired them to solve the case of his missing – read: abducted- daughter. Now _that_ case had led them to such a great success, because the captain was one who loved socialising and had told everyone about the heroic deed of the detective couple, and indeed, how they had rescued his daughter from a burning building in the outskirts of Bromley.

 _Exactly,_ Enola thought _, your thoughts are the same as mine. Bromley. Why Bromley?_ She could think of many more logical locations for the kidnappers to have kept the girl, but hey. Sometimes, some criminals defy logic.

Anyway, working for him had given them quite the mouth-to-mouth advertisement in London and the surrounding towns. And suddenly they had found themselves with more and more people at their doorstep, begging them to take on cases. Just looking over at the pile of letters was evidence enough that their career had taken a step up lately.

With a little smile still playing on her lips, she sat slouched on the couch when Mrs Hudson entered the room again. The older woman hesitated though, hovering in the doorway as she cleared her throat.

“A visitor. For you, my dear,” she said. And Enola sat up a little straighter with surprise.

After the captain’s daughter’s case, Sherlock and Enola seemed to have become the popular go-to consulting detectives. Like they were some kind of novelty in the area. _Even Lestrade had complimented them_ – both of them, not just Sherlock – and asked them if they could help on this particular new murder case. Something to do with a murder on Brixton Road. But Sherlock had been reluctant. _Must be because he had to bribe Lestrade with quite the sum_ , Enola thought amused.

“Who?” Her mind was racing. She had become acquainted with many people since she and Sherlock moved here. But _acquainted_ was the keyword. She couldn’t say that she had formed any tight friendships as of late.

Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue. “A certain Mycroft.”

 _Talk about the devil,_ Enola sat up straight, alarmed. “By God!”

Enola’s outcry came unbidden, she couldn’t help it, and Mrs Hudson reacted accordingly. She drew back against the door with a hand to her heart and gasped. “Should I keep him out? If you want for me to have him wait till Sherlock returns…”

But Enola shook her head. “Sherlock can take ages to get home. Who knows what clues this new mystery will need solving? He might come home during the night, we never know!”

She didn’t like the prospect of coming eye to eye with her eldest brother, but denying him entrance seemed a bit harsh. Especially considering that she was very curious to find out why he had come. She had expected him sooner, so why had he taken this long? Was he really as daft as Sherlock had claimed him to be? And how would he react when he saw her here instead of Sherlock? Had he heard of the two of them cracking cases together? Would he be repulsed to find her in her current state? Would he threaten to send her to some faraway place and turn her into a proper lady again?

“Just, let the man in.”

She knew she should just send him away, but _heck_. It was curiosity. It was always curiosity that won. And besides, she thought, she was under Sherlock’s protection now. She had to face Mycroft someday. Rather it be now.

Mrs Hudson still stood at the doorway and looked at her in doubt. Enola realised her outcry earlier on had given the wrong vibes, and her housekeeper must be contemplating her safety.

“Truly, let him in. I do know him,” Enola said. “But,” she added with a wicked smile, “don’t be alarmed when I kick the man out. I do not consider him a good friend.”

The housekeeper looked at her quizzically, but then gave a short nod and disappeared form the room. It gave Enola the time she needed to take a deep breath and collect her senses. She could do this. She could face Mycroft. Sherlock was her guardian now. What could he do to her?

It took only a moment before Mrs Hudson returned, opening the door to let Mycroft enter the apartment. She waited with her retreat until Enola had locked eyes with her, at which she made a gesture with her hands and inclined her head as to say ‘I’ll be just a scream away.’ It was the thing she had often said to Enola. Call for me if you need me, just give me a shout. Enola knew that Mrs Hudson would be alert and only a door away, giving her the privacy she needed and at the same time that she would be there for her when she needed her.

Enola nodded and watched as Mrs Hudson closed the door and left the two to their privacy. Mycroft had wasted no time in stepping into the middle of the room, where he had taken off his hat and gloves with no delay.

“I had expected to find you here. You two have been the talk of the town. Captain Saintclair won’t shut up about the way the two of you saved his daughter.”

Enola couldn’t help but snicker. Now that she made a sound, Mycroft finally seemed to acknowledge her and instead of fidgeting with his gloves, he looked up at her. His jaw instantly slackened.

“Sister, I am disturbed,” and as his eyes glided towards her obvious round figure he gasped. “In more ways than one! When were you going to tell me?”

 _Like never,_ she thought. Enola shrugged nonchalantly. “I knew it would come about one of these days,” she said instead. “Well, aren’t you going to congratulate me?” She looked up at him expectantly, hoping her expression to be sweet enough to fool him. She just loved provoking him. _Prod him with a stick_ , she thought _, and see how he’ll dance._

But Mycroft responded according to game. “Should I,” he said while he walked over to her. He threw his gloves onto the small table in front of her, as if he owned the place. Enola couldn’t help but glare at him for acting so casually, as if he was at home, when he wasn’t as welcome as he might think himself to be. “Should I, for throwing away your decency?”

He passed her though, and went to stand at the window to overlook the busy streets below. With his hands clasped behind his back - _and his back turned to her_ \- he stood there rigidly, angering her even more. _How dare he storm into their home and then act as if he owned the darn place,_ she thought. And then ignore her. _Couldn’t he just have ignored her fully by not coming at all?_

“So what’s the pleasant reason for your visit?” Enola bit at him, deliberately not answering his question. A fake smile was curling her lips. Her dislike for him and the situation was obvious by her expression.

With a dramatized sigh, Mycroft fumbled a folded piece of newspaper from his coat’s pocket, then dropped it upon the coffee table. Enola had to finally remove her feet from it in order to bend over and have a look. It was yesterday’s edition. She had not bothered to read this one – something to do with the fatigue and it not being one she expected a message in from her mum.

Taking the paper up in her hands, she raised an eyebrow at Mycroft. “You want me to read yesterday’s news?” She asked. “Is this one of your backhanded compliments on my intellect?”

Mycroft groaned and gestured at the paper in her hands, as if he was afraid to touch it now that she held it. “Look closer, Enola,” which was followed by a murmured, “By God, women…”

Enola decided to ignore his silent complaint and focused on the piece of paper instead. There it was. An article in the newspapers. “Mr and Mrs Holmes solve the Shawshanks Murder,” her lips barely moved as she read aloud. “The married consulting couple Holmes once again solved one of London’s most pressing mysteries.”

She looked up at her brother and just knew that he must be wondering about the ‘married’ part. Well, it was as she had expected. Here he was to find out the truth. Later than she expected but still….

“Well, it was a fairly straightforward case,” she replied cockily.

“I am not interested in the deeper meaning of the case, nor the methods you used to solve it,” Mycroft’s eyes slid over her form again. She felt exposed, almost naked under his gaze. She knew what he must be referring to, but she was damned to play the game. Enola kept her lips tightly shut and merely returned her brother’s poignant stare.

“However,” he finally said after they had been eyeing each other for a good half of a minute in silence. “I am interested in how _you_ and _Sherlock_ came to be on this case together? And how long have you been at it.”

If he had wanted to say more she did not give him the chance. She answered without delay, “Well, as you can see, about nine months.”

Mycroft flinched and Enola thought it a little victory. Now it was hard to suppress a smile.

“Enola,” Mycroft lowered his voice dangerously so. “Don’t tell me this child is _without father_.”

“All right, then I won’t tell you so.”

“Enola, sister,” Mycroft was growing desperate in the way she avoided giving him the answers he sought and she liked it. _This is more pleasing than any other game_ , she thought amused. _Let’s see if I can vex him even more._

“Just spit it out, Mycroft. You want to know whether this child is that of _the viscount_ or of some _poor begga_ r, is it not?” By the way his face grew red she knew she had him. _Of course he’d be doubting her integrity, damn him._ But she wasn’t going to let him go off easily this time. _Why not add a little more doubt and drama to it all,_ she thought with a smirk. “Perhaps you even wonder if this child is Sherlock’s.”

“Enola,” Mycroft’s voice was loud and sharp, “that’s enough!” Spittle flew from his mouth and onto her cheeks. He had come so close, so terribly close, that she could smell his breath. Garlic and beans and coffee as he stood looming over her, his tall body bending over her draped form on the couch.

“What’s going on?”

Mycroft reeled back at the familiar sound of a voice from the doorway.

 _Thank you_ , Enola thought in relief upon seeing their brother, Sherlock, in the doorway. Sherlock’s hair was wet, despite the hat he’d been wearing. Apparently it had started raining outside. His eyes darkened upon seeing Mycroft looming over her. He hung his hat on the rack and unbuttoned his coat, but his eyes never left Mycroft. Thee he advanced on their older brother in long strides.

But their older brother wasn’t fazed by Sherlock’s intense stare. “Ah, good of you to join us,” Mycroft pointed a gloved hand at the newspaper article that lay on the coffee table. “Care to explain to me _what the heck_ is going on?”

 _Ironic,_ Enola thought. Mycroft had scolded her for using unladylike language and here he was, barging into their home and _cussing like a bloody sailor_.

“Enola is helping me out,” Sherlock replied, his voice steady but cold. “We’re solving cases at starlight. Need anything more?”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, look at her,” Mycroft wasn’t even looking at her as he spoke. It was as if she did not exist and that, once again, angered her. She frowned and tried to push herself up out of her seat.

Sherlock turned to look at Enola and raised a brow. “Yes?” As if he didn’t know what Mycroft was referring to. Somehow, Enola was grateful that Sherlock managed to brush their brother’s remark off like it meant nothing. Because after all, it shouldn’t matter that she was as she was. This was her life, not Mycroft’s. Besides, Mycroft had made it pretty clear that he did not want to be involved in her life. And here he was, trying to blame her for her state? If she could have, she would have used a very mean Jiujitsu move just to throw him off his feet and show him the state she was truly in. An _angry_ state.

“The child,” Mycroft clarified when neither Sherlock nor Enola started about it. “Don’t tell me there’s no father. And why do the papers say you’re married? Sherlock?”

But Sherlock just stared at their brother blankly. Enola had to admire him for that. She felt the anticipation rise within her. What would her brother reply? Would he give away the fact that there was none? Would he make up some fantastical tale about it being someone important?

“Sherlock,” Mycroft pressed again, “who is the child’s father?”

This finally bolted Sherlock into action. He seemed to defreeze and parted his lips in a silent sigh. “Well, as we seem to be married the answer must be evident,” here he halted to look Mycroft straight in the eye.

“I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Mycroft and Sherlock have a little talk.


	5. How the other brother took it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised if I want the Christmas chapter out in time, I need to get a move on.

\--

5

\--

Enola could hear their voices in the study behind her. The furious whispers of Mycroft and the more moderate replies from Sherlock.

“But brother, this is deceit,” _Mycroft_.

“No one knows she’s our sister,” _Sherlock._

After Sherlock came home to their apartment to find Mycroft looming over her, they quickly took their discussion to a more private place. If only to give Enola a bit of rest, which she thought was very considerate of them. Well, let’s be honest. Of Sherlock. She knew it was his suggestion. Mycroft couldn’t have cared less, which became obvious by the loud raising of his voice so she became witness to their conversation anyway.

With her legs once again propped up in front of her on the small wooden table, she sat and listened to their bantering.

“Lestrade knows,” Mycroft’s voice gave away that he was clearly displeased about the situation.

“Yes,” once again her favourite brother sounded as calm as a chameleon.

“No,” _ah, there it was_. The disbelief. Mycroft’s intellect finally seemed to catch up. “Don’t tell me you _bribed_ him?”

It was the use of the word _bribed_ , Enola mused, that really showed Mycroft’s sentiment towards the case. Then again, he wasn’t wrong. They had bribed him. But still…. _Semantics_.

“He has a fair price,” _and well said_ , Enola silently complimented Sherlock. _Once again, semantics._

“That’s not what our money is supposed to be used for,” it surprised Enola that Mycroft started about the money rather than her brother’s integrity. But then again, perhaps he always had been more of a materialistic person. He certainly hadn’t cared about her or her mother’s feelings. She frowned. The more she got to know her oldest brother, the more she started to understand him. It didn’t mean she liked him better for it though. _Na-ah_.

“You mean the money I made myself by solving cases?” Sherlock was on point and Enola didn’t mind the raised voices of her brothers. If Mycroft’s attempt had been to distress her by making her part of the conversation, then he was failing miserably. Sherlock’s replies were so satisfying to hear that Enola couldn’t help but enjoy listening in on them.

“Brother, you know wat I mean,” Mycroft again. _By God._ Enola wanted to roll her eyes.

“And you know I won’t yield to your convictions,” Sherlock again. He sounded so calm, so determined. Hearing his voice sent a warmth down Enola’s chest. She fondly remembered how Sherlock had surprised her on her birthday, presenting her with a small cake which he gave to her with a bow. She’d been feeling too sick to actually enjoy eating it, and even offered it to Sherlock instead, but she had greatly appreciated the gesture. And well, that the cake had been left on the mantlepiece, slowly rotting away as neither of them ate it – so be it. She thinks Sherlock was the one who eventually threw the cake out when it had become all green with mould. It could have been Mrs Hudson though.

 _Oh- just to think!_ Once this babe was out of her she would finally be able to eat and drink normally again. She would be looking forward to a little celebratory cake then!

“For _God’s sake_ then tell me,” Mycroft’s cry again. And so much frustration and desperation laced his voice, Enola could not help but wonder how his expression would be right now. “Who the father of the child is?”

At this, Enola heard nothing but silence.

In her mind, images flashed of the man with the bowler hat. But they had gradually been replaced during the past few months with the vision of her older brother. Sherlock, with his dark curls and his reassuring blue eyes that rested upon her. Blue eyes, one with a tinge of brown. But just thinking of him seemed to calm her nerves.

“Fine.” Mycroft’s tone was stern and displeased. “ _Fine then._ I _can’t_ believe it, but you leave me no other choice.”

Enola wondered what he found hard to believe, but she imagined that Mycroft must be thinking the worst about them. Not only had Sherlock been the one to press for her guardianship to be transferred to him, he also took her into his house and now pretended to be her husband rather than brother. With a start Enola realised that their older brother must be believing Sherlock’s words quite literally. That this child was _biologicall_ y theirs.

_What would their mother say? Would she think the same?_

For a moment, Enola’s thoughts came to a halt and her mouth ran dry. What a mess they had brought themselves into.

“It is as I said,” Sherlock’s low voice brought her back to the present and she sat up a little straighter. “I am the father in the eyes of the public. Why should you want to know any more?”

 _Well said,_ she thought with a faint smile. _Well done_. At least Mycroft received no satisfactory answers from him.

“I know enough as it is. _Darn,_ I know too bloody much. Sherlock, have you lost your mind?”

“Clearly if I had, I would have _extra need_ for Enola to be by my side. She’s a great detective after all. Perhaps she can find it.”

Enola snorted at this and quickly had to hold her hand in front of her lips to muffle the sound. If she could hear them this well they might be able to hear her in turn.

“I don’t like your sense of humour.”

“We weren’t all born with your grim talent for cracking jokes,” Sherlock retorted.

Apparently the argument between both brothers seemed to come to a hold. Mycroft kept asking the same questions and Sherlock gave no helpful answers. Enola stared at her cup of tea and wondered how much longer it would take before her stomach would turn normal again and she could eat and drink like she had been used to. Within her, the child stirred and she subconsciously rubbed a hand past her abdomen to feel the movements of the ever growing child.

“You wanted me to work that murder case of Brixton Road?” Sherlock inquired, but Enola knew what he was pushing at.

“Yes,” but Mycroft was cut short.

“Then forget what you’ve just asked. This child is not your concern. After all, you gave Enola’s guardianship to me, and I intend not to let her down _again._ ”

Enola swallowed hard. Her emotions were running high again. Sherlock protecting her was exactly as she had expected, as she had trusted for him to do. Yet hearing him stand up for her and the unborn infant was enough to bring tears to her eyes. _Dreaded hormones!_

“ _Sherlock_ ,” Mycroft _whimpered_ – he _actually whimpered_ Sherlock’s name.

“This child is a Holmes, brother,” and with that said the argument was entirely done. Enola could hear Mycroft grunt in reply and not much later he appeared from the study, hat in his hands and gloves already on.

She half-expected for him to ignore her presence on his way out, but he surprised her by halting in his step and leering at her. “All the best, sister,” the words came through gritted teeth however, and Enola felt they were a sneer rather than well-meant. “I do hope you shall take good care of our brother, as I trust he will take good care of you.”

Deciding to add more oil to the fire, Enola straightened her spine and locked eyes with him. “I will, Mycroft. After all, we do _love_ each other _very much_.”

There had been no need to stress those last words but she did so anyway, just to vex him. It worked because she saw Mycroft’s eyes darken dangerously. The poor man was probably conjuring up some of the worst scenarios inside of his head. _Well, let him brew on it_ , Enola thought bemused. He’ll find out the truth eventually.

The most important thing was that he would keep his tongue, for now.

Mycroft made his way to the door to see himself out, but Sherlock followed him.

“I trust you’ll be discreet about this, brother,” he said as he met Mycroft at the apartment’s door. The two turned to face each other while Mycroft tugged at his glove, a nervous gesture which betrayed his discomfort. But he nodded.

“Of course, Sherlock. What else can I do?” For a moment the two brothers stared at each other in a silent agreement. “You leave me no other choice. I will not have our family’s name ruined over this.” At this, Mycroft’s eyes travelled to Enola who still sat on the couch. She flashed him a short smile at which he quickly looked back at Sherlock. “Well, then,” Mycroft clicked his tongue and tapped his own hat. “Good evening, Mister and Missus Holmes.”

As he left the apartment, Sherlock holding the door open to see him out, Mycroft paused in the doorway to glimpse at his brother one final time. “I will see you at the office. Tomorrow.”  
  
“Tomorrow,” Sherlock replied. And Enola was aware that agreeing to help Mycroft with the recent murder case had been a tool used by Sherlock to coerce their brother into holding his tongue about the entire situation. An eye for an eye, a hand for a hand. _Whatever_. At least he would be on their side, so long as Sherlock would help him out with cases like this. Could that be called blackmail? Chantage?

Enola tilted her head and watched as Sherlock closed the door behind him, then turned to face her, a small smile on his face. They waited in silence until they heard Mrs Hudson’s voice and the front door close. Once they were convinced that Mycroft had gone, they both started to giggle.

“Well, sister? Did I do well?” Sherlock’s eyes glinted as he looked at her.

She was still giggling and holding her round tummy. “You did, Sherlock. You did.”

Sherlock pushed himself away from the door and crossed the room until he was standing right in front of her.

“Did you see the fright in his eyes when I told him that I am the father and that explanation would have to do?” He swiped his hand past the coffee table, brushing aside several books and the newspaper that Mycroft had left behind. Once he had created an empty spot he sat down, not caring that it wasn’t a chair but a table they would have their scones from.

Enola smiled up at him. “He probably thinks the child is really yours now,” she said. That's when concern came in. She frowned, tilting her head slightly to look at him through her lashes. "Have you thought about that?"

“So?" Sherlock's reply surprised her. "Isn’t it?”  
  
Enola felt her heart stop when Sherlock looked at her with such honesty. Isn’t it? _Not quite,_ she thought. But she had seldomly seen Sherlock like this before.

“ _Technically,_ I am the father.”

Enola felt at a loss for words. What could she say to this? Sherlock as the child's father? It was a dangerous line they were walking although she had known it from the beginning. She knew that this was part of Sherlock's brilliant solution and she had willingly agreed to play along in the deceit. But could they fool their own brother like this? Was it even fair? “He might think biologically though,” she nearly stumbled over her words. Luckily, she was quite good at keeping her composure. 

“Let him think as he pleases," Sherlock said. He didn't sound as concerned about it as she felt. "Like I said, the child’s heritage shouldn’t matter. It’s a Holmes and it always will be.”  
  
And she had to admit this was so. Whoever the biological father had been didn't matter. She mattered. Sherlock mattered. The child's part that was a Holmes mattered. Surely together they could raise this child as a successful Holmes, right? It would be a challenge, but one she would have no choice but to take.

“Yes,” Enola sighed, realising that all Sherlock was trying to do was protect her and the unborn child. “Forever a Holmes.”

Knowing that Sherlock got her back was a relief. 

“A true Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Enola has a nightmare.


	6. How a nightmare plagued Enola

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enola has a nightmare.

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

\--

6

\--

It is dark and damp within the shed. His cold hand is upon her – cold by the black leather glove that he wears. She feels how the air escapes her before the water even hits her face. It’s pure _shock_ and pure _panic_ of having to relive this _over and over again_. The cold leather cooling down even further as his gloves get drenched. The low emitted groan that escapes from his lips once he pulls her up again sends a shiver down her spine.

She gasps and struggles but it is to no avail. Behind her she feels the muscular body of the hitman. Warm and hot against her own. She hears his voice close to her ear. “ _Delicious,”_ he drawls, rather than the words he had truly uttered.

“It’s a shame, you have seen my face now,” _that is what he really had said, right?_

Enola faintly recalls her own outcries to this as she tried to survive. “No, your face is totally _unmemorable_.” And she _would_ have forgotten his face. She would have tried her best like she did now. But somehow, his expression was carved into her brain. His dark eyes glinting with an emotion she had not been able to identify before meeting him: _lust_. The way his lips curled back in malice – like an angry monkey, she reminded herself. But that is when _it_ had happened.

She had bashed him away from her. They had a short run through the streets of London despite the excruciating _pain_ between her thighs. And although she was hurt she had kicked his arse, kicked him and hit him and fought to survive and to get away.

Then she had caused the explosion. She had lured him there, and she had trapped him. He might have thought he had the overhand, but she knew better. She deliberately had lured him to a place where she knew explosives resided. She had deliberately wanted him there to kill him.

And for a moment she had truly thought that she had killed him there. _Like a cold-blooded murderer_ , her brain provided her. _Was she?_ Was she a _murderer_?

But like the devil he reappeared many days later. Not as much as singed by the fire.

However, that was then. This was now. And she found herself trapped in his embrace, his arms locked around her.

“ _Mine_ ,” it was a raspy whisper near her ear that made something inside of her stomach recoil. “ _My_ Enola.” She was definitely sure he hadn’t said that. But she heard it in her dreams anyway.

The nightmare twisted into something darker. His hands upon her skin, curled around her neck. His gritted teeth near her ear as he gasped her name and claimed her to be his over and over again. She almost felt the pain again between her thighs, the way he had thrust against her.

“I am no one’s,” she rasped back in desperation, trying to wrench his hands off her neck. But he was upon her, strangling her, suffocating her, and all she could do was gasp for air. “No,” _I’m not yours,_ she thought. _Never yours_ , as his body pressed tightly against her and his arms enveloped her.

“Enola!” Enola’s eyes flew open at the unexpected sound of the harsh voice next to her. She turned her head to find Sherlock looming over her, concern in his eyes and only visible by the faint light of the moon which shone upon him from her bedroom window.

“By Jove, there you are. I was afraid you’d be trapped in that nightmare,” he said. And although she could not hear the concern in his voice, she knew that he had been very worried about her. What had she been doing in her sleep, she wondered, to have caught his attention?

“It was a nightmare, was it not?” Sherlock asked, his head tilted ever so slightly. He was sitting on the ridge of her bed. The apartment didn’t have that many rooms, yet Sherlock had vouched to sleep in the room adjacent to her, which was smaller, and give her the master bedroom because he thought she needed it more. The fact that he was taller and took up more space lying down was ignored by the mastermind. She had agreed, it was only logical that they each had their own private space. So finding him in her room, seated on the edge of her bed in the middle of the night, was new to her.

She lazily pushed herself up on her elbows and then winced because that dreaded belly was making her movements harder. She had to roll to her side first to get up properly. Enola then locked eyes with him, seeing them glisten in the dark, their only light that of the moon coming through the window. It was a different glistening from the hitman’s eyes. Not one of malice or lust, but one of concern and affection. This was the glistening she loved seeing, the glistening that comforted her.

“Yes, I can’t say that the dream was very pleasant,” she said as she ran a hand through her loose hair. Her mother had once told her to wear it in a braid as she went to bed, but Enola had found that she didn’t think the effort worth it all. Now the loose strands that she found were soaking wet.

 _The barrel_ , she thought alarmed.

But then she remembered it had just been another bad dream and she chuckled apologetically. “Sorry, brother. I didn’t mean to wake you with my nightmares.” The fear had been so real, so apparent, that she had been sweating. She felt little droplets upon her forehead.

Sherlock didn’t chuckle in turn. Instead, he gazed at her expressionless. She almost became nervous when he remained like that, watching her in silence. But then he finally shifted on the bed and placed a hand on his thigh. “Enola,” his voice was a low murmur and she pursed her lips, curious to what he was going to say next. “You did not wake me, I couldn’t sleep and sat in the study. Then I heard your cries.”

“I shall try to be more silent in the future,” she should have bitten her tongue, but the words came out unbidden. Looking at him a bit better, with the moonlight shining upon his face, she thought she saw deep shadows under his eyes. Perhaps he had been awake then, although she could imagine he had toned down part of his tale to comfort her. He probably woke from her cries, went to the study and debated what to do before he came here. But she decided not to voice her suspicions out loud. _Let him redeem some of his dignity_ , she thought. He wasn’t used to show emotions like concern to others, and Enola was very much aware she was an exception to this rule. Her brother seemed to soften in her presence, though he was loathe to admit this.

“Well then,” she said. “I do hope I didn’t interrupt any important thinking.”

She knew that _whatever_ he _thought_ was considered important thinking by him. _But hey._

As she tried to make herself sit comfortably in her bed, she watched as Sherlock reached out a hand to brush some of the loose strands of hair out of her face. “Whatever it was, it must have been horrendous.”

 _Of course he would have deduced that from the sounds she had made._ She had rather he hadn’t heard her at all so he wouldn’t have been witness to her memories. She wanted for no one to know about what had occurred, what had happened to her. No one needed to know the hatred she had felt within her, or how she had tried to lure the man who had done this to her deliberately to his death. The feeling she had held when she knew she had failed in her attempt, the fear when he returned alive and shot at her, the joy when she made him hit his head and saw him dead.

And now the shame and guilt. _No_ , she should not think of it.

“Care to tell me about it Enola?” Sherlock’s voice was soft. “If this is about what happened, it could help to lighten your heart.”

Enola pouted at this, knowing that of course he would have deduced something like that as well. His mind was brilliant. Of course he would be able to tell that she’d been reliving those bad memories.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, debating whether or not she could muster the courage to tell him. And if she would speak, what parts would she tell and what would she leave out? Could she live with him knowing the full truth? Would he abandon her if he knew of her monstrous desires to murder the man at the time? Would he be disappointed that she wasn’t the brilliant sister he had claimed her to be for these past few months?

“Don’t pretend, Enola, I know something bad happened to you.”

“And how would you have deduced that?” she knew she snapped at him, and quickly glanced at him guiltily in a silent apology.

If he saw the change in her expression, he did not let it show. Instead, he kept his eyes firmly upon her and his low murmur was a steady one. “The way you glanced away when you said the father was dead. The way you said those words through clenched teeth. If it had been a happy accident you would have shown more happiness and fondness at the memory. Yet, whenever there’s a reference to the conception of this child you withdraw in yourself and your expression becomes solemn. You clench your hands, place them in your lap to keep your calm. I see your lips part slightly as you try to steady your breathing.” Here he paused, which made his next question sound that much worse to her.

“Who was he, Enola? What did he do to you?”

“Sherlock,” Enola hesitated, then shook her head. Her loose hair tangled round her face like snakes, covering her expression from the moonlight and from her brother’s prying eyes. She felt the child within her womb move and pressed a hand to her flank to feel the baby’s feet. Were they already this large? How did the child even fit inside of her?

She thought of anything but what her brother asked of her. And apparently he respected her silence. But instead of retreating from her room, she felt the bed dip and the blankets move. When she glanced to her side she saw that Sherlock had laid down beside her and was staring up at her in the dark. With his arm propped under his head, his cheek resting on his elbow, he stared at her in silence.

Oddly enough, this didn’t unnerve Enola. Instead, she started to feel calmer, knowing that Sherlock was here and that he was giving her the time she needed. It felt oddly safe?

He didn’t need to ask again. As he lay down in front of her, his concerned eyes boring into her soul as if he could decipher with just looking at her, she let a sigh escape her lips.

How to deny him when he looked at her like this?

She wanted to tell him that he was a hitman, someone hired by the dowager to murder the Marquess of Basilwether. She wanted to tell him that he said he worked for England, that he wore a bowler hat and leather gloves to leave no trace. She wanted to tell him he was skilled with his hands, with a knife and with a gun. Instead, she shook her head again before she lay down, then turned to look at her brother. Their eyes locked in the dark. “He was a no one, Sherlock.”

Sherlock seemed to accept her non-answer, for he remained silent and didn’t press her for more. For a moment, all Enola heard was their breathing – another comfort; she wasn’t drowning any longer. She heard his steady breaths, heard her own mingling with his. Was this what safety felt like?

She already felt herself drifting off again when Sherlock suddenly stirred. “I take it it hurt.”

She nodded, not quite sure what part of it all he meant. But did it matter? _Physically and mentally_ , she thought. And even in his death the man haunted her dreams.

“Suffocation,” Sherlock’s words shook her and she gasped.

“Rightly deduced,” she heard how her voice raised as if she asked him a question.

It was true that she wondered how he came to such a conclusion. Apparently he heard the silent question in her voice for she heard him draw a deep breath before he said, “your hands. They reached for your throat as you dreamt, like you were trying to remove something from there. I first thought a rope, or a piece of string, but then I realised your fingers tried to grasp onto something broader. Hands, perhaps. He tried to strangle you?”

Enola just nodded, and despite the darkness surrounding them, Sherlock noticed her movements.

“You were gasping for air, your cries almost breathless, like you were unable to breathe in. Hence, suffocation.”

“Drowning,” Enola added, though she didn’t know why she even told him. Hadn’t she wanted to keep it all secret?

“Drowning?” Sherlock sounded surprised, but she knew how quickly his mind worked. He must have figured out by now that a man’s hands had been around her throat, pushing her under.

“That _bastard,”_ the words came from between clenched teeth, spit out like venom. She appreciated Sherlock’s concern, appreciated that he actually swore in front of her. If only their mother could see them now, showing behaviour that society would frown upon. Sharing a room, talking about taboo topics, using cussing words to express their emotions. _She’d be proud_ , Enola thought.

“He was,” and Sherlock had been right that it did feel liberating to talk about the hitman in this way. A _bastard._ An evil _death-deserving_ bastard.

They both smiled.

“See, brother, you have an uncanny talent to discover my deepest secrets. The truth that I wanted to remain hidden because it hurts too much to think about,” if she had wanted to say more the words left her tongue the moment Sherlock reached for her hands. Catching them in his own, he cradled them closer to his chest, and Enola fell silent.

“That _bastard_ can _never_ hurt you again, Enola. Do you hear me? Never.” She could. He was dead. _Dead and gone_ and she _needed_ to _remind_ herself of that. But as she heard Sherlock's steady voice reassure her, it became easier to believe the horrid man was gone. And she didn’t know if she could ever love her brother more than she did in that moment. 

“And if he comes for you in your dreams, I will be there to hunt him down,” Sherlock promised her.

“Hunt or haunt?” Enola jested in an attempt to lighten the mood. She felt tears prick her eyes and prayed that Sherlock couldn’t see them glisten in the faint moonlight that reached their bed.

“Both,” Sherlock whispered. Then he fell quiet. Enola knew he was still watching her, she could hear his gentle breathing as silence filled the room.

With a small smile on her lips Enola fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, skipping ahead till that faithful day of the stork's arrival.


	7. How a Holmes arrived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say things don't go as fast when it's your first child.

[ ](https://ibb.co/HFjk533)

\--

7

\--

She bent over, and that’s when she felt it happen. A slow trickling down her leg, and then all of a sudden, liquid was gushing out, staining not just her panties but running down both legs and creating a puddle on the floor. _Damn, that was enough to fill a bucket! But what the hell was it?_

“What the?” Confusion was written all over Enola’s face and she called out in her panic for Mrs Hudson. When the older woman rushed into the apartment and came to a halt with a harsh breath, Enola knew what was going on. She could read it by the expression on Mrs Hudson’s face. _This is it_ , she thought. And Mrs Hudson confirmed it with a shaky “your water has broken.”

 _And that was indeed it_.

Enola could do no less than watch as Mrs Hudson made a beeline for the phone. “I’m calling Sherlock. He needs to get home, _now_.”

“Now?” Enola was surprised by the other woman’s action. If your water broke, didn’t that mean you were technically already in labour? Oh, why hadn’t she paid more attention when reading those books back at home in her mother’s (actually their father’s) library? _She had thought it to never be of her concern, that’s why._ And how foolish she felt now.

“But will he make it in time?” Enola asked worriedly.

“Of course,” Mrs Hudson sounded surprised and halted, the phone already in her hand. A slight frown slid over her face before she turned fully to Enola.

“Listen, Enola. This is your first child,” _and hopefully only_ , Enola thought, but bit her cheek to keep from correcting the older lady. “Babies don’t just pop out. It might take _hours_ before the child is actually born.”

“Hours?” That prospect seemed to deflate her entire mood. “What do you mean, _hours?”_

Surely the other woman was joking _, right?_

Mrs Hudson looked at her from over her spectacles with a tiny frown. “Oh dear, has no one ever told you about birthing?”

“Told me about….” Enola’s voice trailed off. “What do you mean? Am I not yet in labour? Is the child not coming for another day or two? What is happening to me?”

She stood there, not only feeling foolish but also incredibly silly. The wetness stuck to her thighs and her belly felt heavy and low. But if she stepped aside, then she would only step further into the messy fluid her body had made.

For a girl who often knew what she’d be doing next and what steps to take, she felt incredibly insecure right now. _I mean, how does one react in a situation like this?_ she wondered to no one but herself.

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “I’m giving Sherlock a call and then I’ll help you clean up. You shouldn’t be bending and sweeping. Just go to your room and freshen up,” and as an afterthought, “Oh, and take some linen to make a pad. I’m sure you know how.”

Enola pulled a face and was of mind to ignore the other woman’s commands, but in the end she relented and went to her chamber to change. She glanced at the evidently slept upon bed, the covers all sprawled and pillows still dented. She could still see Sherlock’s tall frame indented in the matrass.

 _How oddly things had changed over the past few months_. Enola realised she was at a point in her life she had never imagined she would ever be: befriended with her formerly estranged brother, about to give birth, having a housekeeper calling that said brother. She could hear Mrs Hudson’s voice, the low yet urgent whisper as she demanded to get to speak to Sherlock, and the sounds of disappointment when apparently she couldn’t reach him himself.

Enola feared for a moment that the others would mingle with their call. That either Lestrade or Mycroft – _because Sherlock had resorted to helping them with their cases and was in no position to withdraw his help now that both knew of their lie_ – would burst in on their call.

Or worse, what if Lestrade or Mycroft would come over with Sherlock? What if they wanted to see the child? To see the abomination Mycroft so feared? Or the reason why Lestrade was given money? Or worse, to discover that this child was nothing like a Holmes at all? That could happen, right? The child could come out looking like a stranger. _Oh God, don’t think, Enola,_ she scolded herself mentally.

She shook her head, forcing the thoughts out, and improvised a pad to protect her newly donned panties. But really, there wasn’t much liquid trickling out at the moment.

She wrinkled her nose.

 _Disgusting_. Why were women built this way?

“God truly must be a man,” she muttered, focusing all her hate on the dubious deity by lack of having someone else to blame. This wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. And the true culprit who forced this predicament on her was long gone. _About eight to nine months,_ she thought with a half-hearted smirk.

She returned to the living room walking rather stiffly. Her hands supporting her tummy, more out of fear that now her water had broken the child might suddenly drop out.

Mrs Hudson had just finished the call and looked at her. “Well, the officer I spoke to said he’ll send someone to ask Sherlock to go home as soon as possible. He’s currently out in the field.”

Enola groaned. “Of course, nothing can go easy, can it?” Why had she expected for things to go differently when her life seemed to be built upon difficulty after difficulty? _At least I’ll always be facing a challenge_ , she thought. _I never have to be bored_.

“And now we need to talk,” Mrs Hudson said as she reached for Enola’s hands, gently took them in her own and led her to the couch. She helped her sit down, then sat in front of her.

After taking a deep sigh and glancing away - Enola thought she must be gathering her courage - Mrs Hudson turned towards her again, her gaze stern. “A child can announce their arrival by many means. Water breaking is just one of these ways, contraction pains is another. But in both cases, it might take a while before the child actually arrives. In the meantime, all you can do is wait.

“I hate waiting,” Enola muttered. She quickly covered her lips with her hands and turned her head away. Her cheeks grew red with embarrassment. Here this kind lady was trying to help her _but by God,_ being told to wait for a natural disaster to strike isn’t something she was looking forward to. “Sorry,” she muttered. She didn’t like waiting. Instead, she rather took things in her own hands, exerted some form of control. And now she couldn’t do either. She had to wait and she had absolutely no control in this matter. It felt tiresome just to think of how helpless she actually was. _So this was how women in general felt_ , she thought alarmed. All those housewives who could only wait and do nothing. _Horrendous_.

Mrs Hudson gave her an encouraging smile and a small pat on the shoulder. “I know, dear. It’s no fun. But think of the moments afterwards. Once the child is here you can hold him or her in your arms. Think of that moment. It’ll be all worth it.”

Enola felt her mind drift away. Her eyes focused on nothing while she mused over the words of Mrs Hudson in her head. _Would it be worth it though?_ The child of a horrid man?

But she couldn’t blame Mrs Hudson. The housekeeper had stood up whilst saying something about how it won’t take days, probably just hours. Mrs Hudson thought this was Sherlock’s child. She thought they were a happily married couple, blessed with their first heir.

_If only she knew…._

_No_ , that was another thought that sent shivers down Enola’s spine. Over the past few months she had grown to like the housekeeper. And not just because of the nice biscuits she baked (and loved to share with them).

Whatever would she think when she found out the truth?

 _She may never know,_ Enola vouched. It would ruin the friendship they had. And Enola didn’t have that many friends at the moment, let alone people she looked up to. Mrs Hudson had rapidly grown to become some kind of surrogate mother to Enola, now that her own was out of reach.

_Wait, did she look up to this woman who baked biscuits and kept houses? Things really had changed!_

“Well, I am not going to sit around and fret for another few hours,” she muttered, standing up again and thinking that she didn’t feel that bad at the moment. “I need apples, Mrs Hudson,” she resolutely said. “Five big apples. And an egg or two.”

“Why on earth would you need that?” The older woman asked in surprise, watching her as she stepped away from the couch and towards the kitchen.

“Why, I am going to bake an apple pie, of course,” Enola said with a small grin. “I’m looking forward to afterwards. And what better way to celebrate the birth?”

\--

By the time Enola was preparing the apple pie, the cramps inside of her tummy had started to increase. And when the pie was prepared enough to be put in the oven, she was bending over, head resting on her arms, and breathing heavily. The contractions had started and she was in no condition any longer to put the pie in the oven.

Cursing like a sailor, she allowed Mrs Hudson to guide her into the living room and accepted the other woman’s promise to put the pie in the oven. “I want that pie done,” Enola managed to say through gritted teeth. “I can’t have everyone come over without that pie done!”

It was silly, but somehow the pie had turned into an important anchor in her mind. One that made her forget what was about to come, like a bridge between two different lives. ( Afterwards she would admire Mrs Hudson’s attitude in the entire matter. But as it was, she could do nothing more than follow the other woman’s guidance. )

She lay down on the couch, puffing and groaning, and accepted the help of one of the called upon midwives who checked to see if she was ready. All the while, her mind was upon Sherlock. _Where the hell was he? Hadn’t he been found yet?_ Half a day had passed and there was still no sign of him! And here she was being told to push!

And so she did.

 _Oh_ , Enola pushed and pushed until her legs trembled and she had bitten her lips all bloody. But the darned child wouldn’t come. The midwife’s eyes grew larger with every quarter of an hour that had gone by and with every pained groan.

Outside, the sky had darkened. On the kitchen counter, the prepared apple pie stood withering, waiting to be put inside of an oven.

Enola felt her energy ebb away. It became harder to breathe, more difficult to push. Mrs Hudson, who had been holding her hand, asked the midwife questions in a worried voice and Enola knew she was in trouble. This wasn’t going right.

And where the hell was her brother? Why was he not here to witness her final hours?

_Good Lord, did she really think that?_

She might know little about the birthing process, might not ever truly have interested herself in the topic of childbirth or the conceiving of children in general, but she knew that all young wives would sew their wedding gowns. And that those wedding gowns were multi-purpose and adjusted to be worn in death. Some women even made their coffin gown the moment they heard they were pregnant. _Birth and death, they were intertwined. Connected._

She hadn’t wanted to think of it and hadn’t prepared her own gown. But now that she felt things were going wrong, she could not help but wonder. Morbid thoughts entered her head. _How would Sherlock bury her? In one of her dresses from home? Or in one of her newer gowns?_ One of the ones Sherlock had helped pick out for her to keep up appearances?

“I don’t know,” she heard the whisper through her ever quietening groans. It was the midwife’s voice. “I think the child’s stuck.”

 _The child_ , Enola thought alarmed. Would it die with her? What would happen if it did? Would it go to heaven? Or would it be send to hell? To end up in the arms of the man who had done this to her? _Never,_ she thought. She would not let _him_ have their baby.

 _This child has to live,_ she realised with a start.

“Lord heavens above, is it still alive?” _Mrs Hudson_.

 _Please, say yes,_ Enola begged inside her mind. _Please, let this child live._

“I can’t say. I can only see the head, but only the hair.” Enola closed her eyes, silently begging for everything to be over soon.

“We need to make a decision,” the midwife again.

Everything had started to become a blur to her, and Enola only heard when the midwife stood close to her and spoke near her ear. “We need to take you to the hospital,” which was the thing any mother-to-be dreaded to hear.

“Not the hospital,” Enola rasped, another painful contraction pulsing through her body. “Please. I want to live.”

Mrs Hudson looked at her in despair. She had been dapping a wet cloth on Enola’s forehead, whether to cool her down or to comfort her. But her hand was trembling and that was the thing Enola noticed most of all. Their housekeeper was scared. “Please, Enola. This isn’t going right. You need help.”

“And I will get it,” she managed through gritted teeth as she tried to subdue the pain – unsuccessful. “ _Here_.”

“I have already called for a carriage. Help her up,” the midwife returned to the living room. Enola had not even noticed she’d been gone.

“No,” she protested, but she was hoisted up by her arms anyway. As the two women tried to support her, and Enola did her best to walk the small route from the couch to the stairs, convulsing ever so often, she shouted for them to stop. “I don’t want to,” and then, “Get it out. Get the child out of me!”

Which of course was the moment for Sherlock to finally arrive. He stood at the bottom of the staircase to hear Enola’s shouts for the child to be ripped out, then saw the three women appear at the top.

“Enola!” He called out. But then he saw her tear-streaked face, red and in panic, and heard her hysteric cries. He instantly knew that the labour was going wrong and turned to Mrs Hudson by her side instead.

“Mrs Hudson?”

The woman replied to him instantly. “The child’s not coming out, Sherlock. Your wife’s at the end of her powers. We need to get her to the hospital. Can you help us carry her to the carriage?”

“For God’s sake, we need a doctor,” the midwife next to her piped up. “A medic! Someone with skill who can cut her open and sew her up if you want to have any chances of _either_ of them surviving.”

He didn’t even question their course of action but rushed up the stairs instead to pick Enola up in his strong arms. Had she been in any other state she might have enjoyed the feel of him. She might even have felt like a princess being carried in the strong arms of her older brother. But right now everything was a haze through the pain.

“Get it out,” she begged him, looking up into his eyes with her own tired ones. “I don’t care what happens to me. Let me die. Just get this child out.”

“You’re delirious,” Sherlock whispered, shocked by what he saw in his sister’s eyes. “How long’s been this going on?”

“She started this afternoon around three,” Mrs Hudson helpfully replied while Sherlock carried Enola down the stairs as quickly and as safely as he could. He ushered into the carriage that stood waiting with Enola still in his arms, settling her in his lap. He kept her tightly in his embrace, as if afraid that he would lose her if he let go. The midwife gave the instructions for the hospital and joined them.

“Ask for Doctor Brown,” Mrs Hudson said while she remained outside of the carriage and helped them in. “I know he has the skill. _Oh_ , and Sherlock,” she waited till Sherlock looked at her. “Good luck. I’ll be waiting with Enola’s apple pie for all three of you to return home.” She looked at Enola intently, indicating that all three meant Sherlock, Enola and the baby. A bit of positiveness in a dire and bleak looking situation. Then she closed the carriage door and the carriage took off.

“I’ll die there,” Enola managed to say between sobs. She knew the tales about London’s hospitals. “I’ll bloody die there.”

“You won’t,” and if she could believe Sherlock for his steady voice and the warm timbre of his voice she would. But she knew his words were hollow. No one could make promises about life or death, not when it was about something like this. “We can do this. You’ll both survive.”

“If we make it there in time,” she started between sobs. Another painful contraction took place and she curled and arched her back on Sherlock’s lap. He didn’t seem to mind that he got her fluids all over him. He didn’t seem to mind that she was shaking like a leaf within his arms and crying and stuttering at the same time.

“We’ll make it,” he whispered, his arms tightening ever so slightly around her form.

The ride took way too long. Although the distance they had to travel wasn’t very far, and they arrived at the hospital in record time thanks to the very skilled and very concerned driver, it was still a bumpy road and uncomfortable to all. Enola was having contractions all the while. Sherlock tried to help her ease the pain by breathing along with her, showing her how to take shallow breaths and deeper ones, helping her to sigh the pain away.

Upon arrival the midwife jumped out of the carriage and alerted the hospital staff. She returned only moments later with a wooden wheelchair to help Enola to one of the designated operating rooms.

“Do we get Doctor Brown?” Sherlock asked the midwife the moment Enola was in the chair.

“I’m not sure,” she honestly replied, which earned her a groan from him.

“We need Brown,” Sherlock started to argue while he pushed Enola’s chair.

Enola heard it all, but the pain was overpowering and she felt so- _so_ dreadfully _tired_. “I don’t care anymore,” she grouched. The pain was overpowering her vision. Everything turned black before her eyes.

\--

Waiting in front of the hospital chamber took all of his strength as well as composure. Sherlock nervously bit his thumb, his eyes trained on the small window of the door in front of him. If only he could be there with her. If only he could see what they did to her. If she was still alive.

“Oh, if she dies there’ll be no place in hell for you to hide, you bastard,” he muttered silently and through gritted teeth. He still had no idea who had done this to his sister, but needless to say he held a deep hatred towards the man. Not only was it obvious that his sister had been abused, that she was traumatised and still suffered from nightmares, but for everything to end with her death? That would be too much for Sherlock to bear.

“I am not prepared to lose my sister over this. Over some anonymous bastard who had his fun only to leave my sister in ashes.”

He had grown used to her presence during these past few months, even if he had denied it to himself. To think everything had started with their mother running away and Enola taking her own destiny into her hands. The respect he had felt for her, then the surprise at discovering her intellect. Sherlock had wanted to become her guardian. Not just to protect her, but to get a chance to be a mentor. At first she hadn’t accepted, had shied away from his presence. He had thought she might have been scared of what he’d do, that he might be another Mycroft. And perhaps that was a fear she had carried as well. But he now thought she might have avoided him knowing that she carried this child.

In the end she had come to him though, and she had accepted him to be her mentor. He had thought that would bring him pleasure enough. It certainly boosted his ego.

But Enola was special. More special than he had realised.

During the time she came to spend at his home he had not only grown used to her presence and fond of her characteristics, but he had also slowly fallen in love with her mind. The brilliance with which she thought, the eloquent way with which she spoke, the easiness with which she managed to solve mysteries and crimes. He loved the way her mind worked.

And then there were the little gestures she made with her hands, her brown curious eyes upon him, her loose long wavy hair when they were at home, the soft snoring when she lay in bed with him at night and the warmth of her body when he would draw his arms around her. He admired her skilful hands and the drawings she sketched to taunt those who annoyed her, but also the sketches she made of the crime scenes and of possible suspects. Not only was she clever, she had skills they could use in their profession. And solving a crime without her wouldn’t be the same.

 _A life without her wouldn’t be the same_.

 _If I get my hands on that man,_ Sherlock had to hold his thoughts there. With a heavy heart he closed his eyes and tried to calm his nerves. _He’s dead, she said so._ There was no use in imagining the things he would do to avenge her. Neither was there purpose in thinking of ways he could have prevented this. He had done so though. The past few months he would lie in bed, watching her sleep next to him, and muse about what could have happened. Horrible fantasies had filled his mind, and he had satisfied himself by thinking of ways to prevent them. He had saved Enola from the faceless man countless of times, had been her hero within his mind time after time again.

But not in reality.

And here they were. Waiting.

“Mr Holmes?”

He instantly propelled forward, pushing himself away from the wall he’d be leaning against. “Here!”

His eyes settled upon the nurse who stood in the doorway. She looked at him with eyes wide, as if he scared her. And perhaps he did. He was aware his clothes were askew and soiled, his hair probably a mess from the many times his hand had run through his curls as he tried to keep his calm. His eyes were wide and wild, his pulse visible in his neck. A tall man, towering over her, looking like he was on the brink of losing his sanity. And ironically, Sherlock thought, he probably was.

Before the nurse could reply he was in front of her, his low voice hoarse but demanding, “Does she live?”

“The doctor is attending to her,” The nurse stuttered. She held her arms in front of her chest and it seemed as if she wanted to take a step back. But then she forced a small smile, as if she had just found her courage. “I just came here to congratulate you,” and Sherlock’s eyes widened even more. _Congratulate_? But that meant….?

He’d hardly noticed the nurse was holding a small bundle in her arms. She hadn’t held her arms up in front of her chest to protect herself… She held a child there. A baby wrapped in blankets. A small, tiny baby, all wrinkly and covered in white, who made small crying noises and who seemed to be gasping – searching for something with its tiny mouth.

_Was that-?_

He stood frozen. His brain unable to cope with what his eyes registered. “Here’s your son,” the nurse said as she held out the little bundle for him. When he didn’t reach for the child, his body still frozen as his mind tried to catch up, the nurse gently urged the child into his arms and showed him how to support his tiny head. Only then his brain seemed to start working again as he looked down at the little baby in his arms.

“ _A son_? I- I have a son?”

The baby felt warm in his arms. Warm and familiar. As he looked down at the tiny scrunched face, so foreign and yet so familiar, Sherlock felt a wave of love wash over him. A feeling that was indescribable and unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

“My-My _God_. I have a _son_ ,” he whispered, the lie suddenly becoming the truth. Damn the man who had done this to them, but praise Enola for carrying this child to term. He was beautiful. Gorgeous. Sherlock couldn’t help but count all the little fingers and toes, noticing they were all there. He studied the baby’s eyes – he hardly opened them but he had them!- and the tiny ears – still crumpled but already so detailed!

“Hello little one,” his voice croaked. _What a fine figure,_ he thought. What would his son be thinking, seeing him for the very first time, hearing the cracked voice and seeing the shimmer in his eyes? Would he know he’d be loved? Or would he wonder if being born here was such a good idea after all. Did babies even get to decide where they were born? Did-

The nurse took the child out of his arms again and he instantly felt the loss. His baby son’s warm little body, the tiny wailing sounds that he had started to make – he missed them instantly. Sherlock looked up at the nurse who smiled at him apologetically.

“We’ll be taking him into the room to do some tests. Then we’re going to see if he can be with his mother,” with another reassuringly meant smile she nodded at him. “I think she will make it.”

And as she disappeared with his son in her arms through the door, Sherlock heard himself whisper to his new born son. “Welcome to the Holmes family, little Holmes.”

 _At home, an apple pie waited_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, How to pick a name.....
> 
> Note: Many things in this chapter are based upon real life experience. Including the apple pie. ..... Especially the apple pie. (My partner put it in the oven the next day. It tasted okay enough XD). Having contractions, pushing for three hours, not caring whether you'll survive or not so long as the child is finally taken out, that's all experience, people (mostly the first born one). And writing this chapter after having just given birth to a child (the second one).... this was pretty tough to write because I did not want to be reminded of all that crap but hey XD I needed to get some progress to make it in time for the Christmas chapter.


	8. How a name was chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some friendly bickering because decisions need to be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had chosen a name, and as I started writing this chapter, it suddenly became a completely different name. I think the characters wanted to do something as weird as this. I can only apologise.

\--

8

\--

Thinking of a name, that was the challenge. Enola didn’t remember ever having been as infuriated with her brother as she was these past few days.

“No, Sherlock, I will not have it. Your names are preposterous!”

The two of them sat in their tiny apartment, Enola with the baby on her arm. She looked better, much better than when Sherlock had seen her right after the birth. And yes, it had taken her a while to recover and she was still mending after the doctor had to cut her up – _Sherlock knew no other way to describe it._ She was still pale. But at least her spirit seemed to have returned which was a sign of improvement. Her tongue was as sharp as always.

“We need a name that will last him,” she said exasperated. “He is _not_ a pet.”

“Did you think I see him as such?” Sherlock voiced his disbelief. He looked at his sister and the child on her arm. _Their child_. And by all means and purposes the baby did look like a proper Holmes to him. Then he frowned. “Good gracious, Enola. You must know by now that I see this child as my heir. Of course he will have to bear a name worthy of a Holmes.”

“Yes, and _Leister Railway*_ isn’t an option as far as I am concerned,” Enola sputtered in turn. “Neither are _Clue Finder_ , _Detective Amazing_ or _London’s Greatest Miracle_. He is our child, not some playground fair.”

“Well, I do know someone whose son is called Leister Railway and I thought I should mention it as an option,” Sherlock started in his defence. But he did not get any further in his plea for his sister overruled him by raising her voice, effectively making their son blink in annoyance as her lips were close to his tiny head.

“An option that has been considered and denied,” Enola resolutely said.

Sherlock merely opened and closed his mouth like a fish, his brain processing all the possible replies, their outcomes and why they weren’t preferable. And so he remained silent and stood there, a little at a loss, while his younger sister was glaring up at him.

“I have given you more reasonable ones but you said you dislike them,” he finally said.

Enola _did_ dislike them, and raised her eyes to the ceiling before taking a deep breath. Remaining calm really took a lot of her. For some reason, her older brother had decided to become unbearable when it came to thinking up names. _For someone so clever he really had a hard time thinking_ , she mused with some annoyance. Which left the name of their son still _undetermined_ – which had also been a name suggestion by Sherlock though she really hoped it was in jest _._

She was relieved to find they still had a few days before agreeing upon a name after giving birth. But the first few days had been spent in the hospital and were technically wasted as far as Enola was concerned. She had done much thinking then, but little about names. She’d been occupied with getting acquainted with the little tiny life she now held in her hands. Plus, trying to breastfeed the little one, learning to change diapers, resting in between, it had taken a lot of her and it had felt like her brain wouldn’t fully function during that time.

When she’d gotten out of the hospital, which had been much sooner than any of the doctors had advised but Sherlock had been very insistent that she could recover at their home, she had been relieved to find they still had a few days left before their child was officially required to have a name. The deadline for naming their newborn son was rapidly approaching, although it was already much later than it should have been. They had to thank Mycroft for the generous amount of extra time given. _Who would have thought, huh?_ Enola thought. _Mycroft offering us a helping hand. Perhaps he feared a ridiculous name for his nephew,_ she thought. And he’d been right if she had to go by Sherlock’s name suggestions so far.

Instead of a name being known at birth, they still had to decide. Enola had to admit that it was mostly her fault for not having wanted to discuss any names in advance. She had thought of a few ones that she liked for boys and for girls, but once the child was out and she saw his dark eyes stare up at her, she forgot all of them. This child needed something better, something special.

_But what?_

The birth certificate at the hospital had generously provided them with a _‘Baby Boy Holmes’_ and she honestly feared that would turn out to be the child’s actual name if they couldn’t decide on something today.

But even with their postponed deadline, the two Holmes siblings couldn’t agree. _It shouldn’t be that hard, should it?_ Enola thought. “Archibald, Benedict, Ignatius, Ridgewell, are these names at all?” she complained. “Whoever calls their child Benedict?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and dramatically plopped down onto the couch in front of her, a clear sign that he actually liked that name a lot and did not fancy her _dislike_ for it.

“Unless you want him to become a pope,” Enola said with a gasp as if she just realised something essential. It made Sherlock frown at her.

“Why on earth would I want that, sister?”

Enola narrowed her eyes at him and sat a little straighter. Her hand supporting the baby’s neck and head. “So the line of Holmes would end there,” she suggested. It was an outrageous thought, but like all clues in a case it had come unbidden to her. The evidence was pointing at it, she thought. “No more brilliant minds to solve crimes. You’ll always remain the brightest detective in the field.”

Sherlock let out a low laugh. “I am glad that you think of me as such.”

And now that Enola realised her mistake she huffed and quickly corrected herself. “I mean, obviously _you aren’t._ Not the brightest detective in the field, I mean. And not the brightest at thinking of names either,” she muttered. “So forget that idea. Our son isn’t going to work in a church. He’s going to do something in our field,” and then as an afterthought, “Or he might just work for the government like Mycroft.”

She wrinkled her nose. _Why did she even think of that possibility?_ “Oh, never mind!” she mewled.

The baby started to make small sounds of complaint and she quickly turned towards him to shush him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I won’t mention uncle _Poopcroft_ in your presence, no I won’t.” She started to coo him. “You don’t have to work for the government, _sweetie_. No you don’t. _You don’t have to_.”

Sherlock watched her with half a smile. Seeing his ever so stubborn sister resort to the ‘I’m-talking-to-a-little-baby-voice’ was just too adorable to ignore. He was surprised how well she had taken motherhood, even if it was just early days. And perhaps even more surprising was his share in taking care of their child. If there were diapers that needed changing, he ran to it, like he was actually happy to do so. _Fact: he was not_. But he had never before imagined that seeing a diaper filled with poo could bring such elation to him. It meant their son functioned, that his little intestines were growing all right. Now _that_ was what relief felt like.

At least he knew how to change them, which was quite a feat. Enola had been surprised the very first time that he had changed their son. _‘Where have you learned how to do that?’_ she had asked, which had delighted him because of the answer he then gave. _‘Well, as a boy I had this baby sister whose diapers needed changing.'_ Which had effectively shut her up and had her cheeks colour a bright red. 

_The situation was utterly bizarre,_ Sherlock thought, and unlike anything he could ever have thought to be reality before. But then again, only someone like Enola could surprise him. She brought out emotions he didn’t knew he held, feelings he hadn’t known to possess and characteristics he only seemed to show in her presence. He never held much patience with others, but he could be patient with her. Just like he never felt the need to hold and comfort others until he re-met her about a year ago when their mother had disappeared and found her an unruly teenager with her mind set upon freedom.

Had it purely been because she was his younger sister? Had his mind recalled faint memories of when they were still kids and he would play with her and coddle her at their parents’ home? Was he trying to relive his past by wrapping his arms around her at night? Or comforting her with kind words and a soft voice whenever she was upset?

Somehow Sherlock didn’t think that was the explanation for his feelings.

He looked at their unnamed son. A small bundle of _human_ , held lovingly in Enola’s arms. That child had truly changed his sentiments. He’d gone from cold to something more _lukewarm_ , he supposed. But as soon as he drew away from either of them, from either Enola or their son, he felt the coldness creep back into his bones and his face freeze into the rigid expression he was used to wear.

Perhaps only _they_ were able to melt away some of the ice that made his personality.

“Are you even listening?” Enola’s voice brought him out of his thoughts and his eyes snapped to her. Apparently it was answer enough because Enola clicked her tongue in annoyance. “I said, have you any proper names?”

Loving to see the vexed frustration upon her face, the wrinkles they caused and the narrowing of her deep brown eyes, Sherlock feigned ignorance and casually placed his hand upon his thigh. “Well, of course. Sherlock is a perfectly proper name as far as I am concerned.”

As he started to rub his hand up and down his thigh, his eyes bore into her. _But he had her_. Enola fell for it marvellously. She let out a frustrated groan. “That’s not-,” she started, clutching her child closer to her chest, “I didn’t mean _your_ given names, _Sherlock_. Don’t play daft.”

“If you think them so bad, then go and blame our mother and father,” he retorted cleverly and Enola groaned. Now Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle and he thought Enola might have started chuckling as well if it hadn’t been for the doorbell ringing and Mrs Hudson’s footsteps below.

“That will be him,” Sherlock said while he pushed himself off the couch with a sigh. He quickly regained his composure, his stoic mask slipping back on his face, and cast Enola a last glance before walking over to the apartment’s door.

“Your new partner in crime?” Enola said, knowing fully well that Sherlock had announced that his _new assistant_ would be coming over today. Despite knowing that this new ‘friend’ had been forced upon Sherlock when he took on Mycroft’s most recent case, she felt a little sting of jealousy knowing that this stranger would be joining him and not her. She couldn’t come along on any of Sherlock’s recent cases as of yet. This new man would take her place. _For now,_ she thought darkly. Because there was no way she’d be stuck at home forever, watching her brother take all the glory. And although she knew she’d be back at Sherlock’s side once she was recovered enough, it still felt like she’d been _replaced_. And it’s a silly thought, she knew this, _I know I can’t claim Sherlock in everything. But somehow, it still hurts. A lot._

It wasn’t as if she wanted him home to look after their son right now. She understood that he needed to be out there and that there were cases to solve. She also understood that she was in a luxurious position with having Mrs Hudson to look after her and the babe and help them both. _But still….._

Sherlock and his new assistant had solved their first case while Enola had been bedbound, another bummer. It had annoyed her immensely. How she loved to have been there to help them solve the puzzle. As fast as they had been, she thought that with her help they would have solved the crime even faster. _In record time_.

Her thoughts were broken by the soft sounds of her son - his voice was still tiny, especially compared to the voices of some of the newborns she had heard cry for their mothers at the hospital. _Oh, the horror of lying there_ , _not knowing what was to become of her and their child_. She rather not think of it. She was here now and held him in her arms. Her son, unmistakably hers.

She was glad he had been fed not too long ago. Her breasts were already starting to feel tender by the many times her son had clamped his jaws around her nipple in the wrong way. As perfect as his instinct was to search for her breasts and the source of his milk, he was quite clumsy in getting a good grip with his lips. She hoped Sherlock’s friend’s visit wouldn’t last very long, or else she would have to retreat for the next feeding. She did not want this stranger to see her babe struggle to get a good grip. _Whatever would he think_?

“Ah, Mrs Holmes,” the warm voice caught her by surprise and she looked up into the face of a kind-looking and much smaller man than she had anticipated. Lines of worry and age were already crinkling his forehead. But despite the trauma that she could read in his eyes, she also saw the little lines of joy around them. _A man with a past_ , she thought. _But also one with a sense of humour_. This was by no means the doctor she had been informed about. A war veteran? With a limp? She had expected someone who looked old and battered. She had expected someone who looked grumpy.

But this man was beaming brightly.

“Mr Watson?” She replied, rather taken by surprise that this was Sherlock’s new assistant. The man’s smile broadened and he nodded.

“That’s me,” Watson said, then leaned forward towards her. “Enchanté.” And she was impressed by his social skills. _Much better than Sherlock’s_. He then focused upon the baby in her arms and knelt down next to him. “And hello to you, little Holmes. Welcome to this crazy world. Luckily you’ve got two clever parents. I’m sure you’ll end up well on your own feet.”

Enola noticed that she’d been holding her breath while Watson talked to her child. And when he started to coo in a voice adults only use to address little children with, she looked over his shoulders to see Sherlock look back at her intensely. _Was he gauging her reaction to his new assistant? Was he waiting for her approval?_

He must have seen her dumbfounded look because she swore she could see his lips curl into a small grin.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Watson then said, standing up straight again with a small crack of assumingly his spine – if Enola could judge by the way he flinched as he straightened himself.

“And you. Sherlock told me lots about you,” Enola said politely. “Though not very informative things. Care to tell me more about yourself?”

Watson visibly reddened by her straightforwardness and hesitatingly made his way to the seat opposite of Enola to sit down. He cleared his throat nervously and eyed Sherlock as if he waited for some sign of approval.

 _So this was going to be the game they’d be playing,_ Enola thought. Both of them were looking at Sherlock like he was some kind of master of them both. _Well, she would not play a game like that and be a pawn._

“Sherlock, be as kind to get our friend a cup of tea and a nice scone to celebrate our son’s birth,” she tried to suppress a smile when she said this, knowing how he didn’t like to be bossed around. But hey, she was the master playing the pawns now. “Our son,” she then said, hearing Sherlock halt in his steps on his way to the kitchen while she kept her eyes focused on their guest, “who we have yet to name.”

She tilted her head and clicked her tongue. “One can’t imagine the difficulty of thinking of a proper name to fit one’s child.” She brought it matter-of-factly, as if a light topic. But hearing the soft grunt coming from Sherlock, she knew the topic was anything but. Watson, in front of her, chuckled nervously. At least he realised what this conversation was heading to.

“Do you think you can provide us with a usable name, Mr Watson?” Enola asked innocently, and to tease Sherlock even further, knowing he was in no position to interfere from his spot in the kitchen.

“Well, I don’t know about that, Mrs Holmes,” Watson started, stammering slightly. “But I am more of an old-fashioned kind of man. Names like William or Henry or John.”

Enola nodded approvingly, though there was still a frown upon her face.

“In fact,” Watson said, sounding more cheerful now. “John happens to be my own name, which I am rather fond of, you know? Hamish is my second but that one makes me feel more shy. I’d rather not recommend that one.”

Enola nodded and thought of her own names. There was a tradition of naming children after their parents or other Holmes relatives which she thought she might have to honour. Then again, there weren’t many names of her family members that held positive memories for her. Perhaps the name of her mother, but then she would have to mould it into a version for her boy. And she didn’t know whether she would want that.

“Besides,” John Watson continued, shrugging shyly. “With two detectives of such great minds, I am sure nothing I can think of has not been thought of by you before. Sherlock has told me of your brilliance. I suppose the both of you will come up with something great.”

She heard Sherlock clear his throat as he returned from the kitchen, scones and tea on a serving tray. But she beat him to it. “If only, if only,” she sang-sung.

Sherlock sputtered as he put the tray on the table and started to take the cups of tea of the tray. “If only two detectives with great minds would actually think alike,” he commented.

Enola looked at Watson who seemed a bit uncomfortable. It was obvious that he had become part of a spousal disagreement. And that being his first time over as well! He was starting to sweat, as Enola could see. Little droplets wandered down his neck and his face was turning slightly red again. His heart was beating faster too. _Interesting. Apparently he was concerned about the impression he made here._ Well, she could not say she did not appreciate his efforts. And she liked him for it. It would be hard to remain mad at him for taking over her place by Sherlock’s side during a case when he was like this.

“I fear my mind must actually be superior to yours,” Enola cried out, “for your suggestions are ridiculous!”

“Preposterous, coming from you,” Sherlock retorted. “When all you come up with are Shakespearian old-fashioned names of romantic comedic plays for nincompoops with brains the size of a pea.”

Enola gasped dramatically and had to clutch her son close to her chest for he started to make noises of protest. Apparently she looked quite funny in her reaction, for John Watson seemed to be covering his mouth with his hand to hide a small smile.

“My suggestions are foul?” Enola complained. “How about your names? And no, not your given ones again, we all know how _ridiculous_ they are. I mean the names you come up with. They are horrid and they are long. How did you even think them up? Do you just keep adding two random words together to form a new one?”

“Amalgamation, isn’t that an innovative thing?” Sherlock pondered out loud.

“ _Cloudbucket_ ,” Enola quoted. “Endorphin, _Cheesecake_.”

“You forgot Skylight,” Sherlock said. “But if you want to do it properly we could fuse our names and have the child be called Shenola or Enlock.”

“ _Ha-ha,_ very modern, Sherlock. Now, I want you to be serious about this,” Enola said.

“But I am,” Sherlock retorted, having sat down awkwardly close to Watson, like he did not care that he was there. He even continued the argument as he sat, making his poor new assistant feel even more uncomfortable. Enola could tell, because Watson was trying to shy away – like he wanted to disappear inside their couch, scooting all the way into the armrest.

“Oh, surely not!” She said, voice raised.

“All right, Sherlock the third, then,” Sherlock groused, his voice even more raised to overpower hers. Their child started to cry softly and Enola was rocking him gently to shush him. Her eyes turned wide like saucers.

“I disagree with Sherlock the third,” she then said, voice softer again now that she saw the impact their argument seemed to have on their son. “Why even third? Why not junior?” Did he have some kind of previously unmentioned son wandering about? Now that was a new kind of fear gripping her heart. She knew so little of her brother from the years he’d been gone from them. And he was quite a few years older than her after all. Had he had a wife before? Had he had relations at all?

But his answer calmed her nerves and even seemed to make her son relax in her arms again. “Because our great-great-grandfather was called Sherlock so he’d be Sherlock the First,” Sherlock said, raising his hand and counting the Sherlocks on his fingers, “making me Sherlock the Second and our son Sherlock the Third.”

Enola looked at him, astonished by this revelation. She had looked at their family tree before but she’d never quite noticed…. “Isn’t that confusing?”

“Why would it be?” Sherlock asked, and she could tell he was genuine about this. _Typical of him_ , she thought amused. _Her brother was such an arrogant prick at times,_ pardon the language her brain provided her with. _Of course he’d think his name to be the best and offer it as an option_.

“I do like Sherlock Junior,” Watson said, surprising them both. "It's very traditional to name the child after his father." Enola and Sherlock both turned to look at him. They had almost forgotten that he was there all along.

“You see,” Sherlock actually sounded excited by his new friend’s support. Like he had won the argument already. His bright eyes sought those of his sister.

“No,” Enola didn’t even shake her head. She just sat as rigidly as he, looking him straight in the eyes. “I’m going to veto that right now.” If they would call their son Sherlock she’d not have it to be his first name. _Imagine if they had to eat and she would call “Sherlock, dinner’s ready!”_ All right, when she came to think of it, it did sound handy to have to shout only one name. But imagine if she needed Sherlock, her brother and fake-husband? And she called and her son would come skipping towards her. _Nope, confusing_.

“Women, so harsh,” Sherlock said towards Watson, and Enola was surprised to see him crack a joke like this. Because she could tell he wasn’t as offended as he pretended to be.

Watson rolled his eyes in a show of friendship, like he knew what Sherlock was on about even though he had told Sherlock that he had no wife and hadn’t been in a relationship with a woman for years now.

“I was thinking more along the lines of Icarus or Orpheus. Or what did you think of the name Benvolio? It derives from the word of Benevolence.” Enola pursed her lips.

“Like I said, Shakespearian,” Sherlock complained in his turn, having Watson chuckle by his side.

 _Nope,_ Enola shook her head. Another suggestion shot down. “All right then,” she sighed. “Alexander the Great then.” Sherlock’s lips pursed and his gaze darkened as a sign of displeasure, which had Enola mutter quietly, “You’re not easy to please. I was trying to think along your fancies now.”

“I can tell you’re a very literate woman,” Watson carefully intervened, taking Enola’s full attention. She turned towards him. “But perhaps this child needs a name more uniquely to his own.”

“Something different than just Sherlock,” Enola mused. “Or Someone the Great.” Her eyes slid back to her brother who was watching her intently.

“All right, let me lay down my suggestions and you lay down yours. If we can’t agree we shall flip a coin, or play a round of whist,” she said. “I suggest the names Burn and Owen. And I’m bringing back Icarus just for the sake of it.”

As if too tired by his parents squabbling, their baby son’s small noises of protests turned into a much louder wail. In fact, he sounded louder than Enola had ever heard him since his birth.

“Oh my, look at you,” she cooed, holding the little boy up in front of her, her fingertips resting against the back of his head to give him support. “Aren’t you a little noisy man?”

“He’s making a hell of a noise,” Watson said, though his phrasing contradicted the tone with which he said it, which was once again kind and soft. Like the sound wasn’t bothering him at all. _It probably wasn’t,_ Enola mused.

“Ah, the quality of sound. Sonance.”

“Son-?” Enola looked at Sherlock from over the baby’s tiny shoulder. The baby kept spluttering though, then let out another loud _wéééh_ sound to make it known he was still there and in need of something. _Possibly some quiet,_ Enola thought.

“Sonance,” Sherlock repeated. “If you want to be modern about it and Shakespearian at the same time it seems like a perfect choice.”

She looked at him in silence for a minute, their son quieting down now that the conversation around him had come to a pause. Watson watched the two with anticipation. And even Sherlock’s heartbeat seemed to have started beating faster, if Enola could judge by the small throbbing movements of the vein in his neck.

Then she started to smile.

“Hmm, I do like it,” Enola looked up at him and saw how Sherlock’s lips twitched ever so slightly.

Now Watson was the one who shook his head. “You’re both equally mad,” he muttered. “Equally, utterly ‘round the twist.”

But Enola did not care. Sonance was as good a name as any. It was unique, it was different and it was _long_ enough to sound eloquent. It meant sound, noise, it meant having a voice. And as she grew up, Enola had learned that having a voice of one own was very important indeed. And other than having a meaning that she rather seemed to like, it also had the word ‘son’ in it, which was exactly what he was. Her son. Sherlock’s son. The tiny human was rapidly becoming the most important human being in her life.

“So Sonance it is then?” Sherlock asked, gazing into Enola’s eyes to find any trace of her jesting. But all he found was honesty. To Watson, their gaze must look like that shared between lovers, for he turned away with cheeks red and quickly reached for his scone. _Let him eat_ , Enola thought, _it will give him something to do other than feel embarrassed to witness something as intimately private as this._

“Sonance? Sonance William,” she looked at Sherlock. “Well,” she then muttered as if she needed to defend her second choice of a name. “He must have some sort of _common name_ in case he might have need of it.

“I did like Burn though,” Sherlock replied with half a smile. “But William will do. You and your Shakespeare again.” He waited for her to flash him a smile. Sonance, as the baby boy was now called, had started to suck on his own tiny fist and the action had quieted him for the moment. She cradled the baby close to her chest, watching him being content with exploring his own hand.

“So, Sonance William Sherlock Holmes?” Sherlock suggested.

“Sonance William Sherlock Holmes,” Enola confirmed with a bright smile.

“Well then, welcome to our home, little Sonance,” Sherlock said, pushing himself off the couch to walk closer to Enola and their son. He bent over them so he could lock eyes with the baby. “I hope you’ll grow up to be a proper Holmes,” Sherlock said, gazing down lovingly at their child. “And I hope that we can guide you to become a pleasant and clever human being.”

“Such a pep-talk,” Enola said with a suppressed chuckle.

“Always,” Sherlock replied.

From across them, Watson watched them with a glint of admiration in his eyes as Sherlock wrapped an arm around Enola and kept staring into his son’s eyes.  
  
In that moment, they resembled the picture of a perfect family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I love the odd names that were given in Victorian Times. This wasn't made up. Someone people really had names like this. Look it up, it's fun.
> 
> Next up, Enola can't help but meddle with Sherlock's newest case, and of course, their son is coming along.


	9. How a baby was brought to a case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enola takes their baby along to solve the Barnes Mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am working my butt off to get to the planned Christmas chapter in time >_> And then a chapter like this happens....  
> p.s. all mistakes are mine and will probably be edited out in future times. But I wanted to get this out today.

Disclaimer: Names and events of the Mystery are real but fictionally improvised. See further notes at the end.

[ ](https://ibb.co/gvbJgNn)

\--

9

\--

“Mrs Thomas is trying to sell her furniture.” Sherlock looked at Enola quizzically as she announced this. His sister was stood in the doorway with her nicest dress on – a red one with lots of layers and ruffles - and with their baby son on her arm. In her right hand she carried a large reticule, the colour slightly darker than her dress and richly decorated with nice swirls in silver thread and gold. Their baby son was wrapped in one of their thicker blankets. Everything a clear sign of Enola being ready to leave the house.

Her cheeks were flushed and Sherlock could see her chest rise and fall in anticipation. _What got her so worked up?_ he thought. Followed by a nasty voice inside his head sneering that she shouldn’t be leaving the house yet for a ride that far. Because Mrs Thomas was a name that concerned _his case_.

 _And she was selling furniture_. He raised a brow. “Well, there’s nothing odd about that, is there?”

“According to her neighbour, Mr Millais there is,” Enola stated matter-of-factly before tugging the blanket to cover their son even better. “Take the fact that there’s the body parts they found in the Thames and we might have ourselves a case. Anyway, I am ready,” she stated, then smiled up at him.

Sherlock knew that smile. It was one of her smug ‘I pretend to be nice’ smiles that betrayed she had set her mind on something and was going to execute it whether it would be clever or not (and also, whether _he_ wanted or not). His sister was stubborn that way.

“What?”

Sherlock was just fixing his own hat, making sure he looked proper and fine enough to go out. He could hear the sound of hooves outside coming to a halt, and then the cheerful voice of Watson. The two had agreed to meet up and drive to Twickenham to investigate one of their cases.

“The bones found near Barnes Railway Bridge?” Enola clarified, but Sherlock shook his head. That was not what he meant when he said ‘what’ and he knew that she knew it.

“Enola,” he sounded breathless as he tried to think of something that he could say or do to get her to stay home with their son, instead of joining the uncomfortable ride of nearly two hours. Would their baby son be up for such a bobbly trip? Could his neck stand that?

Sonance had only recently grown strong enough to hold up his own head. But Sherlock wasn’t convinced yet that he was ready for much shaking and bumping by taking a long trip in the carriage.

Apparently his sister could read his face, for she clicked her tongue and then said “He’ll be fine, Sherlock. I’ll be carrying him in a sling close to me. There won’t be much shaking. He’ll be quite secure.” She then showed him the long piece of fabric which she sometimes used to carry their son around with inside their house, or when she’d joined them more recently on some of their less dangerous cases. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, not knowing he had held it, but then gathered his composure again and pressed his lips into a thin line.

“It’s still quite a trip,” he said, not liking the idea that his ‘wife’ and child would come along on a journey that would take them the entire day. Not to mention that Watson would probably see her breast feed their son during their trip. And _yes,_ he knew Enola would use the blanket to cover up and keep some modesty, bless her, but still. Just the thought that Watson would be there –

_Was it jealousy? Possessiveness? Awkwardness?_

Sherlock rather not think of what it could be. The process of feeding a child was quite normal, after all, and he seemed to be the only one bothered when another man was present when his sister would be feeding their son.

“A day out,” Enola interrupted his thoughts, sounding way too cheerful. He knew she must be looking forward to this, for her eyes beamed brightly as she looked at him. “And remember, it’s one of your lesser dangerous cases. It’s just a concerned neighbour worried about the woman next door.”

“Julia Martha Thomas,” Sherlock groused, “twice-widowed.”

Enola simply nodded and joined his side. She waited for him to open the door before she passed through. He watched her, knowing that there was no way he was going to change her mind.

“Did you bring enough diapers?” He asked, worried that in her delight to get out of the house and top of this case, she might have forgotten something essential as that. (He knew he had, on one of their previous cases. ‘ _How could you forget his diapers?’ Enola had shouted at him when they discovered they hadn’t taken any cloth along that could be folded and pinned like small baby pants. Enola never shouted. ‘And you're supposed to have such a brilliant mind!’_ Yep, he was never going to be allowed to forget that day. She would probably keep reminding him of it for eternity _._ _)_

“I have,” Enola said calmly as they descended the staircase. “Diapers, bags, I think of such things,” the implied ‘unlike you’ hanging silently between them. Sherlock decided to respond with a quiet huff that he knew she would notice with her sharp eyes and ears. And she did, by the sign of her lips curling into a small smile. Dreaded girl, he thought. She noticed everything about him, every slight change or oddity.

Together they made their way to the coach where Sherlock informed a very surprised Watson that his wife and son would be coming along. As they sat down it was instantly clear that the doctor would have no say in the matter and the coach was off before he could ask another question. Sherlock and Watson sat opposite of Enola, giving her all the space she would need with her reticule and Sonance – who was now trapped in some kind of fabric contraption that Enola had come up with. The sling, which she had made with Mrs Hudson’s help, was considered barbaric by some, and odd by others. But Enola swore it would come back into fashion once people realised the handiness of it. With their son in it, he was quiet and she had her hands free to do stuff. Like draw sketches and investigate mysteries.

“The neighbour is one Mr Millais, artist, painter of portraits and more recently sceneries. Currently residing in London for a commission, real address and family all reside in Scotland,” Watson read Sherlock’s notes out loud so everyone could hear.

“Millais suspects something is wrong with his neighbour, Mrs Thomas,” Sherlock helpfully provided. “He says he hasn’t seen her in a while and when he did, she kept far away from him. She hasn’t answered to his calls like she used to.”

“Which is why he hired us to investigate,” Watson said, eyes upon Sherlock first before sliding to Enola.

Enola hardly noticed the doctor was watching her. She was too busy cuddling her baby son who she, true to her word, carried in a sling around her. He was pressed tightly to her chest, his little head supported by the fabric of the sling. But his little hands and feet poked out and she used the moment to toy with his fingers.

“ _Oh_ , they are quite cold today,” her soft voice whispered. “My, we need to do _something_ about that, sweetie.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said after clearing his throat. He had noticed how Watson’s gaze had travelled and he’d been watching Enola cuddle their son as well. It was a pleasing sight. There was also a bit of jealousy there, and this he knew for a fact. He would ask her to hold his son himself, but he knew she’d complain about the whole process of wrapping the child in the fabric around her chest, which was a tiresome process and their son was so nicely quiet and content right now. Enola would certainly object to handing him over on grounds of those arguments. But there was something inherently special about a baby’s scent, as he had soon discovered after their son’s birth. Something sweet and authentic that made you want to hold your baby close and that gave you comfort. Having a baby upon you then became a reward.

“What do you think, Sherlock? Is the neighbour worried about nothing?” Watson asked, his back upon Sherlock but only for a short while.

“It might be. More interestingly are the facts that Mrs Thomas seemed to have a fall-out with her hired new maid. Allegedly, she hired a certain Kate Webster almost a month ago, then complained about her to her neighbours. About two weeks ago she last complained about her while in church. After that, her attitude changed. According to her concerned neighbour, Mrs Thomas has been avoiding him ever since and he has only spotted her when she went out into the street to offer pigs lard to the children in the neighbourhood.”

Enola, though still busy with her child’s hands – because Sonance was gripping her finger with his tiny hands and it was just too cute to ignore – muttered without looking up, “now that is morbidly curious.”

“What is?” Watson asked as he turned his head towards her again in question.

“The lard,” Enola clarified, turning to meet his gaze. “From what I understood Mrs Thomas, though not unpleasant, wasn’t generous in handing out anything but gossip. For her to avoid gossip seems rather out of her nature. As is the giving of lard.”

Watson hummed. “Right, if you say it like that. I think I understand what you mean. Then Mr Millais could be onto something here?”

Sherlock nodded. “If we can figure out what caused her to do this charitable act all of a sudden, we might be onto something.”

Watson sighed. “Though it might just be that Mrs Thomas was inspired by that Sunday’s sermon and had a change of heart.”

“That sudden?” Enola asked.

“In that case, we’d have no case,” muttered Sherlock. It was obvious he thought this case to be beneath him and no challenge at all. He had told Enola his own theory when he had first taken the case upon him and had been over to interview the concerned neighbour. _An utter waste of time_ , he had called it, _as Mrs Thomas is just an elderly lady whose behavioural change might even be due to old age._ But he had taken it on anyway as it not only provided them with much needed money, but Watson had said he wanted to have a bit of a break from all the murder mysteries they had stumbled upon lately. _Sherlock loved murder mysteries_.

“But the lard,” Enola said, this time with giddiness in her voice. She leaned slightly forward as she spoke to Watson. Her eyes drifting between him and Sherlock. “Think of it. Where did she get it? And how much was it that she gave away? I understood it was quite a bit from what Mr Millais wrote to us. Where would she have gotten such an amount as a single pensioner? And why give it all away for free?”

Watson scrunched his eyes, apparently doing as Enola said and giving the whole situation a thought. Sherlock studied his expression.

“And why sell her furniture now?” Enola continued, her hands moving as she talked. Sonance’s tiny hands moved along as he still refused to let go of her finger.

“Well, she might want to redecorate?” Watson suggested.

Sherlock admired his new friend for that. Watson had this optimistic view of the world, where every time when they would encounter a bleak situation, he would come up with a cheerful explanation. Usually his explanations were wrong though. Usually the bleaker and pessimistic view that Sherlock held was the correct one. But it was refreshing to work cases with someone so eagerly positive.

In front of them, Enola shifted again. “I say Mrs Thomas is dead,” she said matter-of-factly. A smug smile curled her lips. “And the maid did it.”

Sherlock paled at his sister’s suggestion, though his mind instantly caught up with hers. _The lard – human? The maid – Mrs Thomas? The deed – vile. The case – another murder mystery?_ It all clicked inside of his brain and it made sense. He just decided not to tell Watson this. Let the man who was staring out of the window and who was happily humming a tune believe that this was just a silly little case about an overly concerned painter and his elderly neighbour. But as it was, Sherlock had started to worry about bringing Enola and Sonance along. Because what if she was right?

\--

_CLACK._

Enola stepped aside just in time to dodge the fallen object. And while Watson stared at it with wide eyes, Enola let out an elated shout.

“It’s a …. foot!”

They were in Twickenham, they were snooping around the premises of Mrs Thomas’ house after talking to some of the neighbours.

Mr Millais, who had hired Sherlock and Watson, had told them all about the oddities he had noticed in Mrs Thomas, his neighbour _. ‘I might not know her that well, as I am only here temporarily,’ he had said to them. ‘But it feels like there’s something off about her. I worry.’_ And then he had complimented Enola and Sonance for looking picturesque. He had been surprised that Enola had come along. Sherlock and Watson assured him that her presence and expertise would not cost him any extra. Millais gave them directions of the area, told them about his neighbour’s house and the landlady who lived in the same house as Mrs Thomas but had her own side of it, as well as where they could easily climb over the fence of his to hers, then said he would have gladly come along but that he would be watching out of his window. If they needed him, they just needed to shout and he’ll be there.

They had kindly thanked him.

They next talked to some other neighbours before they investigated the house that Mrs Thomas lived in. Their next interview was with the woman who lived under the same roof as Mrs Thomas, Miss Ives, who was the landlady. Her mother happened to be there as well and both women expressed their concern. They said they had heard something heavy fall on the second of march, like the fall of a heavy chair. They had seen Kate Webster do some vigorous cleaning in the early morning that followed. They had not seen Mrs Thomas herself.

They also talked to Henry and Robert Porter, who both hadn’t had any contact with Mrs Thomas herself, but had been talking to the maid who had told them about how Mrs Thomas wanted to sell her furniture. Henry had known Kate Webster, the maid, for quite a while, from when she had lived in Hammersmith. He knew she had a young son, and that the father of the child had left her. But she had been lucky in her new life. She had told them she had remarried.

With the bulk of information they had gathered, both Sherlock and Enola had pieced together the clues and evidence. They were now waiting for Watson to catch up with them.

But as it was, brother and sister were convinced that something very foul was at play here, and they had opted to snoop around Mrs Thomas’ house before trying to get inside to interview the old lady. And that was how they ended up in her garden. Having followed Mr Millais’ instructions and climbing over his garden’s wall, the leaves of the bushes hiding the lower part of the wall rustling and sticking to their clothes, they were trying to be as invisible and as quiet as possible as they examined the garden of the elderly lady. They had been peeping through windows and spotted a woman in the kitchen. But other than her, they had seen no one else. Enola had wanted to sniff around the garden, claiming she had a feeling they would find something there.

_They certainly had._

The human bones clacked onto the pavement from their place between the garden walls. A foot with a bit of ankle still attached to it. The flesh was rotting, bones popping out. Her cry might have alarmed Mrs Thomas, if she was there at all, or the maid. But Enola was too delighted with her find to worry about that.

“And it looks awfully butchered,” she piped up happily, “I mean, look at those ridges at the bone? That seems to be done by something sharp, like an axe?”

On her arm, their baby son mewled happily, like they weren’t studying chopped off pieces of human in front of him. Enola smiled up at her brother. “You know what this means?”

“That someone forgot to sharpen their axe’s blade?” Sherlock muttered as he studied the way the bone seemed to have been cut off the rest of the skeleton.

“That this has become a _murder case_?” Watson carefully suggested.

“Right so!” Enola happily said.

“We should tell the police,” Watson said. He sounded worried. They watched him take his handkerchief out of his pocket and then bent through his knees to pick up the piece of rotting flesh. But both Enola and Sherlock cried out for him to stop and he froze in his movements.

“No, don’t touch it!” Enola looked at him with eyes wide. “Leave it there. It’s evidence. We need the officers to find it here. If we take it along we could have found it anywhere!”

Watson frowned but then nodded. “Right so, er, sorry,” he apologised, then as quickly as a man of his age and past could, he pushed himself up on his feet again. _With a groan,_ Enola noted. The war veteran hadn’t displayed a limp ever since she met him, but he did seem to have some leg and backpain troubles.

“I think we all know what happened here,” Enola then said. “They found parts of a woman’s body down the river on the fifth of march. All bones, no flesh attached. The only things missing were one foot and a head. They call it the _Barnes Mystery_ , as she was found near the Barnes Railway Bridge. Which is, if I am not mistaken, not that very far away. Suppose the murderer has walked there, dumped the body and hoped no one would find it. But for the foot to lie here….” She glanced up at the building next to them and noticed they were awfully close to the kitchen again. But the woman they had seen standing inside earlier on seemed to have gone.

“Now the only question remains is whether this is Mrs Thomas or the maid,” Enola said. “But I do think we have our answer.”

“If Mrs Thomas could walk to the Thames and back carrying a heavy bag full of bones, then she’s been fooling her neighbours all along. She’s supposed to suffer from bad arthritis,” Sherlock calmly replied.

Watson and Enola looked at him in silence for a moment. The baby, still securely against Enola’s bosom, made a small sound of annoyance. By the smell of it, he was in desperate need of a change of diaper.

“I think we have our lady,” Enola said. Then more reverently to the foot. “I’m sorry Mrs Thomas.”

\--

With the intention of alerting the police, the three made their way around the building. They did so by first climbing back into Mr Millais garden. The painter came rushing out of his home from where he clearly had been watching them to greet them. “I say, what was that shriek?” He asked them first thing. “Did I hear you correctly? Have you found a foot?”

Enola blinked. But Sherlock replied for her, making sure that Millais’ eyes slid from his younger sister to himself. “We need to alert the officers. Could you do that for us? There’s physical evidence that something bad has occurred next door. Tell them to hurry and that we have found a missing part of the Barnes Mystery flesh puzzle.”

“He means, bones,” Watson clarified when he saw Mr Millais’ puzzled look.

“Ah,” Millais said, then nodded. “Sure,” there was a smile on his face and the clear evidence of realisation that he could do something heroic in this case. “I will do so at once.” As he made his way to the front of his yard, he turned to the three detectives.

“You might want to go and check next door. I saw two large vans arrive only a moment ago. Something is up,” and with that said, Mr Millais headed out into the street in a fast pace.

Sherlock and Enola locked eyes with one another, then nodded. They were both thinking the same thing.

But now that Mr Millais was gone, the sounds of a high-pitched woman’s voice could be heard, and all three detectives perched.

“Hear that?” Watson said, frowning, “What’s that noise?”

Sherlock was obviously listening closely, his lips slightly apart and his eyes turned to the source of the sound, even if they could not see it from where they were standing. “Sounds like our landlady Miss Ives.”

Enola was the first to be on her feet and despite the cries of their baby son, she hurried onto the road to watch two vans in front of Mrs Thomas and Ives cottage. Strong men were collecting furniture from Mrs Thomas’ house. They saw wooden chairs and a desk pass them by. Even some oil lamps.

“Who is selling this?” They heard Miss Ives ask.

“A Mrs Thomas, ma’am,” one of the man helpfully replied. But he didn’t stop walking and carrying the nicely carved stool with red velvet topping. Enola thought she would not have minded owning such a stool. It looked elegant and comfortable.

“Well, call for her,” Miss Ives said in a harsh voice. “I want to know why she suddenly would part with her belongings.”

“Instantly, ma’am,” the man she had addressed said, and off he went – after he had placed the stool in one of the vans.

Sherlock, Enola and Watson watched as the man disappeared into the house and then took it as their cue to approach Miss Ives, who stood waiting with an exasperated look on her face. She twirled her hands by her side, a sign of nervousness. There were worried lines visible crinkling her forehead. 

“Ah, Sherlock, Watson, Mrs Holmes,” she greeted them as they approached her. “I am waiting for Mrs Thomas. Apparently she is selling her furniture. She’s in her fifties. She’d never part with her favourite chair, let alone the desk that belonged to her second-husband. She always told me about how it reminded her of him and the time they have shared. Why are they taking it away?”

Before either Sherlock or any of his companions could reply to Miss Ives’ questions, a woman appeared in the doorway. The woman who was dressed nicely, her clothes befitting a woman of standard. Her teeth showing gold. But as Sherlock and Enola instantly noticed, this woman who was dressed wealthily and tried to walk bent, was much younger than the fifty year-old they had expected to see.

Brother and sister glimpsed at each other again and Enola couldn’t help a smug little smile. In her arms and against her chest, Sonance was still making crying noises and releasing a poignant scent. But Enola wanted to see and hear what would happen. The woman who approached them looked them over and seemed to pale slightly _. Was that anxiety?_ She tugged at her earlobe, another tick that betrayed her discomfort. Enola could see the golden rings on the woman’s hand while she followed the gesture. This much-too-young Mrs Thomas was nervous all right. Enola half expected to see her eye twitch next, but the woman seemed to compose herself.

“Mrs Webster?” Miss Ives exclaimed, confirming Sherlock and Enola’s suspicion. “I asked for Mrs Thomas. Where is she? And whyever are you wearing those clothes while on duty?”

Mrs Webster glanced at the crying Sonance, like his cries annoyed her, then up at Enola. But she didn’t ask her who she was or why she and the men by her side were here. Instead, she turned to Miss Ives. “Mrs Thomas isn’t here right now. She _er-_ she had to go away in rather a haste and asked me to overlook the workmen in her stead.”

Hesitation in her voice, which otherwise was very sturdy, Enola noted. Mrs Webster had thought about what to say, but seemed to have some difficulty bringing the message out of her lips. The hesitation had betrayed doubt. Perhaps she was nervous that Miss Ives could read the lie behind her words? Miss Ives was clearly suspicious of what was happening – as were they all.

“Away? Well, where is she?” Miss Ives asked. She had folded her arms in front of her chest and some of the workmen had halted in their moves to look at the conversation that was taking place.

“She didn’t say, ma’am,” Mrs Webster started. And then, as she glimpsed at their spectators – Sherlock, Watson, Enola and the workmen – she quickly added, “Or if she did I might not have listened closely enough to notice. Said she’ll be back soon. I suppose you could wait for her-“

“No, no need for that,” Miss Ives had sensed Mrs Webster’s panic and anxiety and was quickly quieting down. The last thing she wanted was to scare the maid away before they knew what had happened to the real Mrs Thomas. She tilted her head and forced a kinder tone. “I only wanted to know why she was selling her chairs and tables.”

At that point, four strong men passed by carrying a heavy wooden bed between them. The carved details showed that this bed wasn’t very cheap either. “And even her bed!” Miss Ives continued perplexed.

“Aye, you’d have to ask my mistress,” Mrs Webster said. She sounded sure and astute, like you could ask her anything and she would give away nothing. _Which probably would be her tactic if she was indeed guilty of a horrid crime,_ Enola thought. “I suppose she said she wanted something new.”

“You see,” Watson whispered to his companions. “She just wanted to redecorate.”

“She wanted something new all right if she sold her bed. A new resting place,” Enola looked at her brother meaningfully.

Miss Ives sensed that talking to the maid would get her nowhere and her shoulders slumped. “I will go home and leave you to it. But I trust that you will tell her to come and see me once she returns home.”

“Sure, ma’am,” Mrs Webster’s answer was given so crudely once again, in a tone that should not be used to others, let alone to people who were supposed to be your superior. It gave away Mrs Webster’s horrid attitude and made it less believable that she was an actual maid. Especially now that she was wearing clothes that did not match that profession. Clothes that were ill fitting, as Sherlock and Enola had noticed. The fabric around her buttons stretched on her chest and her skirt was draping through the muddy grass.

Mrs Webster watched Miss Ives retreat. Her cold eyes upon her and her jaw clenched. Enola noticed ho the maid was tugging at her own earlobe again, then clenched her hands until her knuckles had turned white. She then turned to look at Sherlock, Watson and Enola from over her shoulder. Her cold piercing gaze slid to the crying baby in Enola’s sling. But she said nothing and then returned to the house. They watched her enter it and waited for the door to be closed.

“Did you see?” Enola said, giddy with all that had happened. “She even adapted Mrs Thomas’ dentures.” And it must be so, for Mrs Webster had worn a nice set of teeth with gold fillings. The kind of teeth no maid could afford. _But Mrs Thomas would have_.

“She’s going to run,” Sherlock said, his eyes still fixed upon the now closed door. As if he could see through it and what Mrs webster was doing. “She knows we’re onto her and she’s not going to let herself be caught.” He swiftly turned to face Watson. “We need to keep a close eye upon the house until the police arrive. Which, if Mr Millais’ kept that same pace, should be rather soon.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” Watson replied, looking slightly cross-eyed and shaking his head. He made his way over to Mr Millais garden wall and sat down on top of it. “I just don’t know what to think of it all. Miss Ives called for Mrs Thomas and she got to see the maid instead. And then the whole tale she said. I had been hoping this case would be something easy for once. But now I feel like we’re about to get our hands burned on another of those wicked murder cases.”

“Ah, you’ll grow to love it one day,” Enola said as she joined him on the wall. She playfully pricked his side with her elbow and watched as a small smile slipped on his face. “Any case can be an interesting one, no matter how big or how small. _I,_ for once, don’t care much for murder mysteries. But I do love solving them.” Her eyes sparkled brightly as she looked up at her brother. “I love solving any riddle. And I love solving them when you are around the most.”

Sherlock was staring back into her eyes but said nothing. He felt what she was saying, felt it course through his entire being. The love that she held for him and that he held for her in return. _How could he voice those feelings in words?_ To his sister, for _God’s sake._ He sometimes forgot that was who she actually was. _Not his wife._ He watched as Enola smiled, then heard Watson chuckle and saw him wave his hand in front of his face.

“Phew, that little man really needs to have his diaper changed soon. If you wait any longer you might need to change yourself,” Watson said, looking at Enola with a smile.

“Hey, it’s just _poo._ Not that much pee yet. If he had peed more, I would have noticed by now.” She reached a hand in between her chest and her crying son. “Nope, still dry. Well, expect for my _breasts_ _leaking-_ ”

“Enola!” Sherlock could not help his bark. _Too much information_ , he thought with cheeks red and his blood pumping down to parts of his body that usually didn’t require as much.

At this point the officers arrived and Enola and Watson both stood up. They had a short talk, informing the policemen of what they had found. Then Watson and Enola went around the back and into the garden to show their discovery while Sherlock kept an eye on the house. When the officers returned – with the foot – there was a short discussion in front of the house until the decision was made that they were to go inside.

Enola watched as Mr Millais followed everything from his window next door. Her son had stopped crying but he still occasionally made little ‘eh’ sounds of discomfort.

“They asked us to go inside with them,” Sherlock said, capturing her attention.

“After a little pressing,” Watson interjected helpfully, ignoring Sherlock’s groan and roll of the eyes. Enola knew what that meant. Sherlock had wanted to make it sound like they were all important while in reality he had to manipulate the officers into allowing him to be inside to study the crime scene. He didn’t trust policemen to notice details much. And let’s be honest, Sherlock was very good at noticing things. He probably was right.

“That’s okay,” Enola said, almost being overruled by the newly started wailing of her son. “I’ll join you soon.”

Sherlock raised a brow as if to ask her why she would not join them now, straightaway. But she just pointed at their son in his sling. “Sonance really needs changing,” she started.

“I could smell that,” Sherlock matter-of-factly stated. Which caused her to wrinkle her nose in annoyance.

“Ha-ha,” she sarcastically said. Their baby’s cries grew louder again.

“Want me to do so?” Sherlock offered, but Enola shook her head.

“No, they will need your skill here, Sherlock,” she said, gesturing towards the house. “Besides, my reticule’s still over at Mr Millais’ house. I’ll change him there, then come join you once he’s clean. We need to think of the poor officers’ ears.”

As if to prove a point, Sonance’s cries turned even louder.

“And noses,” Watson helpfully supplied, holding his fingers to his own nose. And he was right. Sonance had come to that age where his excrement had started to smell. Horridly strong.

Enola rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, let me be off then. I’ll make it quick.” She hurried away. Sherlock and Watson watched her as she made her way towards Millais’ home and waited until they had seen her safely enter. Then the turned to look at each other and both cracked a smile.

“You’d make a good father,” Sherlock told Watson. But the smaller man shook his head and let out a sad chuckle.

“No, Sherlock. I don’t think I could stand the smell and the sounds for much longer than a day.”

But Sherlock knew that Watson could.

\--

Mr Millais had generously shown Enola a place to change. Poor Sonance was looking rather neglected, and she had a tough job at washing his tiny buttocks clean. Then she folded a fresh diaper for him and once he was all dressed and fed, she tied her sling with him snug against her chest. He gave a little sign of protest, but she just gave him a kiss on his tiny head and he quieted down again. His eyes drooping as a sign of him falling asleep.

She greeted Mr Millais, who had kindly given her some tea while she had been breastfeeding Sonance, and thanked him for his generosity. Then she exited the house and walked towards the street when she heard a suspicious rustling sound.

 _Leaves_ , she thought, _like the ones of the bushes near the lower part of the garden wall._ She recognised the sound from when they had climbed over earlier. Instantly alert, Enola turned around sharply to investigate. She made her way around the side of the house, to the backyard. Her sharp turn and alert pulse had Sonance open his eyes fully again. His tiny nose wrinkling as a sign of dissatisfaction. He just wanted to sleep after having his tummy full of nice warm milk.

 _There,_ Enola thought, she could see the branches of the bushes bent. _More so than when we passed through there_ , she noticed. And when she turned her head the other way, she saw the unmistakable figure of a woman carrying a large reticule, a rich hat donned with chicken feathers, a skirt that was too long and slid through the grass.

“Kate Webster,” Enola whispered, then louder she called “Mrs Webster, stop!” _Sherlock was right_. The maid was trying to get away. But why only now? The officers had gone into the house almost an hour ago. Time enough for Enola to change and feed her baby son. Had she been hiding? Awaiting the right time to escape from out of the house? Had she needed to gather her belongings first? Or well, Enola thought sourly, Mrs Thomas’ belongings partly. Kate Webster had evidently stolen items of the old lady. She was still wearing the other woman’s clothes after all. And when Kate Webster turned around to look at Enola with eyes wide and wild, Enola noted the woman was still wearing Mrs Thomas’ golden teeth.

Having seen Enola, Kate Webster quickly spun around again and started running through Mr Millais’ garden. Enola knew she could not waste another moment and started the chase. She held Sonance with both hands as she ran, even though he was tied securely in his sling to her chest.

“Mrs Webster, stop!” Enola shouted as she ran after her. “Kate, stop! Just-“ Enola let out an exasperated groan as she watched Kate trip over the much too large skirt and fall face-first into the grass. The fall allowed for Enola to catch up with the woman, which she did. Standing next to Kate as the maid scrambled back up to her feet, Enola caught her breath. But she didn’t have long. Once Kate was back on her feet she surprised Enola by spinning on her heels and delivering Enola a hard blow against her cheek. Enola saw the hit coming just in time to parry the front attack, raising her own arm to block the maid’s arm. This, in turn, surprised Kate, whose scowl turned even harsher and whose eyes were lit with anger.

She let out an anguished cry as she pulled her arm back, then started hitting Enola again, this time with both arms. But Enola was using her Jiu Jitsu knowledge and blocked the attack, then dodged a third attempt by Kate to hit her head.

At this point, Kate used her leg to kick Enola’s stomach, effectively aiming at Sonance as well. But her skirt was long and blocking her movements, and she wasn’t as fast as she could have been. Which was lucky once again for Enola, because it gave her time to once again block the attack.

 _Sonance!_ She thought in alarm, realising that Kate’s kick could have hurt her baby son. But her thoughts distracted her, and Kate made use of the delay in Enola’s response to strike once more. The maid seemed to have remembered that she was carrying a large bag with her, undoubtedly heavy with gold and silverware stolen from Mrs Thomas’ home. And she now swung it towards Enola who had no other choice but to dodge and take a step back.

“Mrs Webster, stop it. It’s over,” Enola tried from her position a few feet away from the woman swinging her reticule. “Put that down and listen to me,” Enola tried, but Kate just let out another anguished cry and launched at her.

The reticule swung towards Enola again and as it did, Enola stepped aside and waited for the bag to pass her. As Kate was still holding the bag’s handles, Enola could now grab Kate’s arm and twisted it, using her martial art skills to twist and turn until Kate had no choice but to cry out in pain and let the item go. The reticule fell upon the grass with a dull thud, indicating that it indeed was heavy.

Enola then spun around to tackle Kate, but Kate was larger than her and bulkier. And the maid also happened to know what Enola was trying to do. Perhaps she had lessons in Jiu Jitsu as well, or perhaps she had great experience in fights. But Kate managed to get a grip on Enola instead and struggled for a moment, trying to get her arms around Enola’s neck to strangle her.

Luckily, Enola knew to wrestle herself free before Kate could get a good grip on her, and she used a high kick to ensure that Kate would step away from her. She had managed to hit Kate in the chest with that kick, but other than an ‘oof’ and the woman stumbling backwards, it didn’t seem to affect her much. Kate straightened her spine again and showed the gritted golden teeth that had once belonged to her employer.

“So you can fight, little mum,” Kate groused. She instantly lunched another arm at Enola, but Enola blocked the attack – with difficulty- and struck in turn. Kate blocked hers as well. “Pathetic,” Kate then said, her voice like gravel.

Enola didn’t notice how Kate stuck out her leg again. She had not expected it after the failed kick last time, with the much too large skirt. And as such, Kate’s kick came as a complete surprise. It wasn’t a high kick either, but low, aimed at Enola’s ankle. And it worked. Enola felt her balance slip away and the sharp pain in her ankle bone. Then she slumped to the ground. She managed to fall on her back, with Sonance safely held on top of her, and instantly looked in the direction of Kate to see if she would launch another blow.

But Kate stood bent over her reticule, ready to pick it up.

 _Time for my signature move again_ , Enola thought. She kept a good grip on Sonance, ensuring herself that he was quite secure on her chest inside the makeshift sling, then turned towards Kate. She pushed herself with her legs towards the maid, gripping Kate’s ankles with her hands, twisted her legs up to the sound of Sonance being quite uncomfortable between her raised legs and knees, and wrapped her legs around the maid.

 _The corkscrew_.* Luckily it was over and done with soon because the entire experience was unpleasant for the baby tied to her chest. The corkscrew move didn’t look as much like a proper corkscrew either, with the way she could not start from her belly. She had to improvise the right way of placing her hands. Then rolled over as quickly as she could to wrap her legs around Kate. Somehow she managed to bring Kate down, the other woman tumbling on top of her at first. But Enola managed to get herself and Sonance from underneath her. Kate’s arm was tangled up somewhere between them and Enola got a good grip on it that she did not let go. Not even when she scrambled up to her feet, and placed a foot on top of Kate to keep her from getting up as well. It was at this point that she could think again and that she realised that Sonance wasn’t crying like she had expected he would.

When she glanced down at him, she could see his confused eyes upon her and his tiny fist nearly completely stuck inside his mouth. _Aww, he was sucking for comfort, how sweet_ , Enola thought. Relief filled her that her son seemed okay, nothing odd about him. He hadn't been squashed and he looked healthy and content as he could be despite the rather uncomfortable move she had just attempted. She had to muffle away the itchy feeling inside of her chest when she thought that it was with this similar move that she had killed her son’s biological father.

 _Don’t think of that_ , Enola, _don’t go down that morbidly dark path again. It’s not worth the energy._

She also wondered if ever there had been a woman attempting the corkscrew move with a baby tied to her chest before. Now that she thought of it, it seemed like one of the most unwise things to attempt. She could hardly believe that it had worked.

“Why have you done it?” Enola asked as she looked down at Kate beneath her, her attention back fully upon her.

The maid opened and closed her mouth without sound, obviously thinking of a witty reply to give, but then settled for a very simple, “I didn’t do anything.”

The answer had Enola put a little bit more pressure on Kate’s arm, which she still held in a painful and twisted grip. “The lard,” Enola said, “that was her, right? That was Mrs Thomas.”

Upon Enola’s accusation, Kate narrowed her eyes at her. _Hah, she’d been right!_ The revelation seemed to have unleashed something inside of Kate, who growled a confession of sorts through gritted golden teeth. “She had me fired because I like to drink. I begged her to keep me on to that second of March. It was her own doing.”

“So she pushed herself off the stairs?” _It was a wild stab_ , Enola knew. But by the description of miss Ives and her mother, she had deduced that the heavy chair falling could have been Mrs Thomas tumbling down the stairs. And Kate did say the second of march, which was the day the landlady and her mother both heard that sound.

Apparently her deduction was right for Kate did not deny nor answer to it. Instead, the maid still trapped underneath Enola’s foot and with her arm twisted in Enola’s grip growled at her again.

“You wouldn’t know what it is like! Living your life with no money, surviving on the street, carrying the child of a man who forced himself upon you and then left you alone,” Kate spat. Her eyes slid to Sonance, who was still in his sling. "You are a happy little housewife judging by your dress. What do you know of pain?" Enola’s arm instinctively left Kate’s to support the baby’s bottom, as if she carried him on her arm rather than in the sling itself. But the words hit home and Enola knew that her own gaze must have darkened at the memories that they had roused. _What did Kate know_? _Nothing indeed_.

With gritted teeth Enola stared down at her. She felt how her eyes started to water, her sight becoming blurry. She unconsciously clutched Sonance closer to her chest. He was too valuable to lose and to see Kate leer at him was enough to feel like a threat.

Kate noticed her distraction, however, and used this to kick at Enola’s ankle. Enola stumbled backwards but managed to keep her balance. But the whole act had given Kate the time she had needed to push herself off the floor and start running. By the time that Enola had found back her footing, the other woman was already well ahead of her.

Enola pushed herself up from the grass, her dress smudged and covered in green stripes. Luckily she’d gone for something dark and not white or yellow. She had anticipated getting a little messy. As she pushed herself up she noticed how the top of her belly seemed to hurt, like she’d sprained a muscle there. _Could that even happen,_ she wondered? But nonetheless she started running after Kate. But the maid had an advantage and was way ahead.

Enola chased Kate into the night, but running with a child bound to her proved to be heavy and impractical. Plus, she found she’d been worn out by the fight and despite the adrenaline coursing through her body, pain and weariness were starting to make themselves known and eventually she found she had to stop to catch her breath. She had no other choice but to watch Kate run off into the distance until she had disappeared from sight.

With a loud groan and the feeling of having failed, Enola turned around and slowly started making her way back to the house. If only someone had heard her shouts and had alarmed the officers. But even if they had, Enola realised that they would not have been quick enough. The fight with Kate hadn’t taken that long, and neither had their run. While she was walking back she glanced up at the house of Mr Millais to find him standing in front of the window, brush in his hand. He nodded at her and she knew that he’d been watching. _Had he also alerted the officers_ , she wondered? Had he told them he’d seen Kate run away? _No,_ she thought. Millais looked as if he’d been painting, he probably was. _How much had he seen happen?_ she wondered. _Had he seen Kate and her fight at all?_

_\--_

"Have they found the head yet?"** Enola asked first thing when she returned to the house of Mrs Thomas. The police forces were still investigating. Sherlock and Watson stood aside, giving instructions. When Sherlock noticed Enola’s presence he quickly came towards her and placed his hands on her cheeks, then locked eyes with her. She was so much smaller than he, his hands were large upon her skin, his feelings protective. As he looked down at her he noticed her red cheeks from running and the way her chest heaved. _She’d run, had she hurried?_ he wondered, _hurried to get here to him?_ But then he noticed the grass stains on her dress, the dirt on the heels of her boots and the messy strands of hair that had slipped out of her updo. _Had she been in a fight?_

Sherlock’s eyes slid to their child. The sling showed evident traces of dirt and grass, the traces being more visible because of the lighter colour of the fabric. But their son seemed content, suckling his own fingers. Not a scratch was visible.

“Enola,” he sounded relieved, then leaned forward to press his forehead against hers. His eyes closed and he took a deep breath. Beneath them, their son started to make small crying noises which made Sherlock chuckle.

“Yes, I missed you too, son.” He opened his eyes again and gently ran a hand over Sonance’s head. “What happened, Enola? You look like you were in a fight.”

“I was,” she confirmed. Instantly eliciting a reply from Sherlock, “What? But you carry our child!”

Officers look at them and Enola pointed at their son in the sling. “This child,” she said to clarify, in case they might think that along with the child visible in front of her chest she might be pregnant with a next. _The thought horrified her_. And then back to Sherlock, “I did and I do, and he is safe as you can see. I took no unnecessary risks. But I met Mrs Webster on my way here. As you anticipated she tried to escape, took the same route over Mr Millais’ wall that we had. I tried to stop her,” and then in a sadder tone, “Unfortunately she got away.”

Sherlock could see how the outcome had upset his sister. He knew how proud she was of not only solving cases, but also of being able to fight off anyone who tried to lay hands on her. He knew she was skilled, had seen her use her Jiu Jitsu moves more than once now, even while pregnant. It had made him wonder how a man could have gotten close enough to- “Don’t beat yourself up over it. There’s not far she can go,” he said instead, forcing his thoughts on other matters and reassuring her. His words seemed to help calm her.

“Oh?” she asked innocently, cocking her head in such a way that she looked at him through her long lashes. It always send a shiver down his spine when she looked at him like that – a shiver of the good kind. “How so?”

“Let me show you,” Sherlock offered her his arm which she took. Together they strolled through Mrs Thomas’ house, which seemed eerily empty as most of the furniture had been removed. “I imagine the estate agents will think Webster did them a favour,” Enola remarked upon seeing the empty rooms, and Sherlock had difficulty stifling a smile.

They arrived in the kitchen where Watson stood talking to the chief officer. Enola didn’t need to ask what it was that Sherlock had wanted to show her.

“Blood stains,” she yelped as she instantly took her muddied boot from out of a dried stain. There were many traces of blood, some drippings and others the size of large puddles, all discolouring the floorboards. Some fainter, some thick and evident. “And many! No one could overlook this. Why didn’t those men who came to collect the furniture alert the police?”

“I assume Webster kept them out of the kitchen and away from the stairs,” her brother said as he let go of her. He went to stand in the middle of the kitchen and ran a hand through his short curls. “As you can see there are many stains, enough to indicate death. Some seem to have been scrubbed but Mrs Webster did not do a proper job.”

“Evidently,” Enola agreed.

“It’s worse,” Sherlock then said, surprising her to her morbid delight.

“Worse?” She asked, a light shining in her eyes as each and every trace of evidence, each clue and each confession supported her theory and proved that she had been right. “How can it be worse?”

“They found charred human bone fragments in the kitchen grate,” Sherlock said, “and there’s a fatty substance behind the laundry boiler which confirms our suspicion. Judging by the splinters of the bones and the bloodied axe they found in the shed, Mrs Thomas was butchered and then boiled. Her flesh was probably given to children to eat as pig lard. She then hid the remaining bones in a box which she had Robert Porter help her throw down the Thames. Unfortunately, Mrs Webster hasn’t done a proper job hiding all of the bone fragments,” and here he added in a whispered voice, “and I have a feeling she won’t do a proper job hiding herself either.”

Enola was silent for a moment as she processed this new information. She glanced at the kitchen grate to see how one of the officers was busy securing the bone fragments. The man in question looked slightly green in the face, his shoulders trembled, then heaved. And then he suddenly bent over with lots of unpleasant noise. Enola was happy that she could not actually see the vomit and only needed to hear it.

“Let us hope so, Sherlock,” she said. Then she drew out her sketching pad and sat down on the ridge of the stove. “But just in case, I shall draw her portrait. The officers look like they could do with a little help.”

Sherlock watched her, fascinated as her hands deftly moved along the paper of her sketchpad. Then his lips curled into a smile.

\--

“Hah, I told you I was right,” Enola exclaimed enthusiastically. Sonance on her arm let out a small noise of annoyance at the loudness of her voice near his ear. “She was an imposter after all.”

The three of them were sat in Sherlock and Enola’s house, Watson next to Sherlock on one couch and Enola opposite of them with Sonance on her arm on another. Between them was the coffee table with cups of tea and scones. Watson held a newspaper in his hands and had just read a news article about the ‘Barnes Mystery’, the case they had helped solve two months ago. They were still looking for Kate, but officers said they had found a clue of her possible whereabouts.

“It’s a pity that she got away though,” Watson actually looked like he had been the one to let her go, with the way he sat sulking. Although he was as happy as any of them to have solved the case and to have received a fair share of the money, he was still feeling responsible for not having caught Kate as she had left the house. Enola of course had, but he did not blame her for not being able to stop the maid. If anything, Watson blamed himself even more now that he knew Enola had fought Kate with Sonance still tied to her chest. He hated the thought that either of them could have gotten hurt. Enola realised Watson had wormed his way into their hearts like a worm making his home inside a nice juicy apple. She actually felt flattered that he showed concern for her and her son’s welfare.

“They will catch her,” Sherlock said. “We’ve got her name and her credentials. And more importantly, Mr Millais has made a sketch of her.”

“Oh, so there’s no need to use my sketch, is there?” Enola said annoyed. She had gotten used to being the only one to do these mug drawings that they could show around or hand to the police, and now suddenly that spotlight was stolen from her. _Another pedestal I have to give up_ , she thought demurely.

“I said _painting,_ my dear,” Sherlock said in a whisper, as if to comfort her. “I am certain your sketches will come in handy for the police to use.”

“Speaking about paintings,” Enola said, then pointed out of their window. “Isn’t that Mr Millais?”

“It is,” Sherlock said surprised. He instantly went to the door of their apartment. “I wonder what he has come for.”

Enola and Watson watched as Sherlock left the room to open the front door and let their guest in. Not much later, Mr Millais had sat down on the couch next to Enola. A large packed present was placed next to his feet. _A painting,_ Enola thought. The shape and the way it was wrapped gave it away, though the image was still hidden from view.

Mr Millais was enjoying a nice cup of tea after he had just explained that he was visiting some acquaintances in London before he would return to his wife and children back in Scotland. He had also brought the happy news that the officers had found an address in the house of the late Mrs Thomas. Upon investigating, they found Kate Webster and her son hiding at the found address and Webster was now in jail. Apparently she’d been in jail quite often, Millais said. For theft and that sort of thing. Enola silently listened to him and tried not to be reminded of Kate’s words during the fight.

The woman must have had a tough life. But still…

“And I am so happy that you solved the case, I want to give you something for your help,” Mr Millais concluded, his cup of tea nearly finished.

“We do accept coinage,” Watson started, even though they had already been paid handsomely.

“Ah, I was thinking more along the lines of an art present,” Mr Millais stammered with cheeks red. “Let’s say I got inspired. It’s not often I have seen a fierce young woman in combat. Let alone, a fierce and beautiful young woman with a baby on her arm. As an artist, how could I not have drawn what I have seen?”

And as he turned the canvas around, the three of them gasped. On it was Enola, life-like and all in colour. Her red dress was swirling around her. The details of each of her hairs were visible as they were drawn as braids that had been needly pinned in an updo, like she had worn it that day. On her right arm was their son, a small child in a pink dress with a cream-coloured blanket wrapped around him, showing only one of his tiny feet peeking out.

Enola felt her breath catch. Beside her, Sherlock had fallen silent, while Watson could be heard gasping and then humming approvingly. “It is very realistically drawn,” he then said, voicing both Enola and Sherlock’s thoughts exactly.

“You may have it,” Mr Millais offered. “It might not be my best work as I made it in quite a rush, but-” His voice trailed off as he anxiously waited for Sherlock to take the painting from it. Enola sat gasping, staring at her likeliness on the canvas.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, taking the painting without hesitation. “We very much appreciate it.”

Mr Millais smiled in relief, and also glowed with a bit of pride, Enola thought. She hardly heard what he said next, hardly registered it that he took his leave and politely thanked him while she stared at the painting in front of her.

Her hand brushed past the surface to feel the rough linen, covered in a thick layer of paint. Her dress, so lifelike, but also so much like the dress she had worn back then. _Why had she put it on?_ she wondered. How had she not seen that Sherlock had gifted her with something so similar as what she’d worn as a disguise the day it had happened?

And then her eyes travelled to her painted son. She held the real Sonance up next to the painting and smiled. “You’re such a handsome lad,” she cooed.

At this point, Sherlock and Watson both returned from helping Mr Millais to his carriage, and Enola turned towards her brother.

“Where will we keep it, Sherlock?” Enola could not help but say out loud. She gestured at their living room which was already cluttered with books, drawings, sketches and everything one needed for babies. “Our apartment is already quite cramped”

“I don’t know, Enola,” Sherlock honestly replied. Enola could tell he was imagining their rooms and the space the large painting would take up. He would probably think of hanging it in his study, but there was no room left on the walls as it was. And leaving it all wrapped up in some corner of the house seemed like such a waste.

“How about this, you sell it,” Watson suggested. “The painting is extraordinary. I am quite certain someone will pay a lot of dough for it. Like the Viscount of Tewkesbury, he loves art like this. Seems to be collecting a lot of brown-haired women pictures lately.”

Enola looked at him in surprise but bit the inside of her cheek to keep from commenting. _Was he now?_

She’d almost forgotten about him. She considered him a friend, but had been aware of his flirtatious behaviour towards her. Once she’d discovered her pregnancy she’d been too scared to face him and had deliberately and actively avoided him. Now that her son was born and she had adapted some kind of _housewife_ life with Sherlock, she had totally forgotten to worry about him.

“I’d rather we ship it back to the mansion,” Sherlock said, his expression one of bitterness. Apparently he didn’t like to be reminded of the young viscount either. Enola thought she could see a streak of jealousy there within his eyes.

“Back to where?” Enola said with a sigh. “Mum’s not there. You want to have it stored in a house you previously told me looked rather delipidated and ‘not looked after’. Wouldn’t that be a shame?” She retorted feisty.

“It’s a pity not to have it hung somewhere,” Watson added. “I would hang it in my home, only…” He too had a small apartment, Enola knew. And hanging a painting of another man’s wife and child would be dubious. He shrugged.

Sherlock’s eyes darkened. “You’re right,” he said, turning back to Enola. “We need to find some place more deserving. And I think I know just the place.”

She looked at him curiously.

“The Diogenes Club,” Sherlock said. “We can store it there, for now. Until we think of something better.” And Enola nodded. The Diogenes Club was a gentlemen’s club co-founded by their brother Mycroft. But also a gentlemen’s club Sherlock liked to frequent to get his information and new cases. Enola had joined him once, even though women were rarely seen there. She knew how their clubhouse looked like and knew there’d be room enough to store the painting till they would find a better place.

“The Diogenes Club,” she said, and cast another glance at the painting.

She, in her red ruffled dress with her hair wild. And Sonance, a baby boy upon her arm, looking up at her with a smile. The painting was truly done beautifully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, Mum's in the neighbourhood and heard from the grapevine something about a grandson?
> 
> * Note: I don't think it's possible to do a proper corkscrew with a baby tied to your chest, BUT as I wrote this and realised I liked this scene a lot, I actually tried this at home with my baby tied to my chest and my toddler as the victim. Though I am now 4 weeks after a C-section, I could imitate parts of the move and grip (didn't actually tackle my toddler though). It reminded me of my wound though, (ouch, better be careful) which I had forgotten I'd given Enola as well. To defend the Corckscrew choice, I will lean on artistic freedom here and assume that Enola is well-trained and this takes place enough months after the birth for the wound to have healed enough for her to carry out this move. Let's say she just strains a few belly muscles. Also, she's wearing a damn good corset so I imagine that will help.  
> ** I just love how the head was found in David Attenborough 's backyard in 2010.


	10. How a mother and son were reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eudoria Holmes found out about her grandchild and decides to pay a visit.

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

\--

10

\--

There was a slight knock on the door, too gentle to be that of Mrs Hudson or Watson. Sherlock was in his study, reading through files and signing documents. Enola never knocked, she had a key to their front door, so Sherlock knew that it wasn’t her either. But it must be someone that he knew, or else Mrs Hudson wouldn’t have let them in.

He looked up from his desk. Their baby son, who was rapidly growing, was murmuring sounds of nonsense in his cradle. His little arms and legs swinging and kicking to and fro as practice.

Enola had left to work a case on her own. Which left Sonance in his care for a few hours. She had fed him before she had left, but Sherlock knew that their son would become restless as time passed by. In another hour or so, he’d be making louder noises in complaint, until eventually he would start to cry. He remembered Enola’s very first case alone. She’d only be gone for an hour or two, but when Sonance had started to cry out of hunger, all Sherlock could do was walk up and down the study with his son on his arm, waiting and wishing that Enola would be back soon. Luckily Sonance was bigger and older now, and he could feed the boy some mashed fruit or a bit of water from the bottle.

“ _Enola?”_ Sherlock perched when he heard a familiar woman’s voice behind the front door calling for his sister. “ _Will you let me stand here waiting?”_

Sherlock had to take a moment to compose himself. His hands clenched in front of him, then relaxed. Casting one glance at his son to ensure he was secure where he was, he then stood up from the chair at his desk to open the door to their apartment. The woman waiting at the top of the stairs in the hallway looked up at him in surprise.

“Sherlock?” Her voice sounded unsteady, but he could tell she had not expected to see him. She had anticipated to meet Enola.

“Mother,” Sherlock stated, then stepped aside to offer her the space she needed to enter the room. She glanced at him, looking him over in less than a second before she stepped inside. Her purse held tightly in her hands in front of her. She instantly scanned the room, studied the decorations and the mess scattered around her. No doubt she spotted the baby toys that lay here and there across the room. _If only he could have seen if the sighed widened her eyes in surprise._

Sherlock could see her look around, then swallow before she looked back up at him. She wore a hat with a strip of delicate lace on it, casting a patterned shadow to fall over her eyes. But even without it, he had never been able to read her well. He knew her emotions showed in her eyes, a trait that he had inherited from her and why he suspected she shielded them.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she said. He noticed how she waited for him to gesture for her to take a seat. Only then did she sit down on the couch to look up at him. But now that he could see her eyes he noticed that any emotion they might have shown had gone. Her gaze was blank again, empty, betraying nothing of her thoughts.

Sherlock said nothing in return. He merely stood for a moment, watching her, looking down at her as he waited for her to explain herself. If she hadn’t wanted to talk to him, she would have left the moment she saw him. She would not have sat down. But she had. And so, curiously, he tilted his head to study her before he sat down opposite of her, placing one leg over the other.

His mother glanced at the small coffee table and saw the vase with the chrysanthemums in them, a clear touch of Enola’s who was adamant that they had at least one vase of flowers to brighten up their home. He knew from the start that besides a habit from home – their mother had always had bouquets decorating the rooms after all – it was also a reminder. The flowers were in a way Enola’s way to cope with her mother’s decision to run off. The flowers had been a way of communication for their Eudoria, and she had shared this knowledge and passion with Enola. No doubt her mother had instantly recognised Enola’s touch and the message within.

Sonance, still in the cradle in the study, was quiet and Sherlock suspected that he was toying with his favourite blanket. No doubt the baby boy would be listening to their voices as well. He would have check on him soon, but first he needed to deal with his surprising guest.

“Enola, is she-?” Eudoria started, but Sherlock cut her short.

“She’s out.”

“Oh,” he watched his mother’s deflated expression and the way her eyes drifted to the floor uncomfortably and in disappointment. She had come here for Enola, after all. But what puzzled Sherlock was the confusion he had seen on his mother’s face when he had opened the door. Surely she must know this was his home? That the apartment was on his name? Or had she assumed that he somehow had rented it for Enola to live in?

“She’s working a case,” he clarified coolly whilst observing his mother’s reaction to his words. He saw a little muscle in her neck twitch and the fingers of her right hand curl.

“On her own?” Eudoria looked up at him and when he replied with nothing but a curt nod, she hummed and her eyes wandered elsewhere again. “Sherlock, I am proud of you.”

Sherlock raised a brow at this. When his mother fell silent, her hands moving restlessly in her lap as if she were contemplating what to do next, he decided to provoke her. “I’d not imagined I could stir this emotion in you. I thought I only made you proud when I successfully solve a case,” he said. His eyes bored into his mother, observing her for any signs that gave away her thoughts.

She craned her neck to look back at him and he could see a nervous twitch at the corner of her lips, albeit it being ever so slightly. One had to be very observant to notice. “Oh Sherlock,” she said, her voice steady but he could taste a hint of sadness in it. “You are my son. My second born. How could I not be proud of what you have done and have achieved?”

Sherlock decided not to answer that question either and watched her in silence.

Once again, his mother took bait and decided to continue the conversation on her own. “I am proud because of how you let Enola work a case alone. It is where her talent lies, after all.”

But as his mother studied him like he studied her, he wondered if she could read his disagreement. Enola, to him, had many more talents. One obviously being motherhood. He saw the evidence for this each and every single day. She loved their son and hated it when she couldn’t take him along to where she was going. Such as today, when she was working a case and had to inspect the sewers for it. No way she would risk their son’s life - even if her recent fight with Sonance to her chest had made some people think otherwise, but what did they know?-, and for that he was grateful as well.

“You left her in her value, I mean,” Eudoria said when she noticed she had still not elicited a response from him. “When I found out Enola lived with you, here, I assumed she would be at home, playing housewife-”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Once again he interrupted her and made her bite her tongue. At least she had gotten a response from him now. Eudoria looked at him with surprise in her eyes. But he had to look hard to notice it. Her face was as solid a mask as his own.

“The child,” Eudoria then calmly said. And Sherlock wondered how she had come to know. He knew little about his mother and her activities these most recent years. What he knew had been told to him by Enola. The fencing she had taught her, the Jiu Jitsu moves, the puzzles and riddles, the anagrams and the flowers. Enola loved to refer to her mother when it came to all of these. Eudoria had taught her, after all. But she had also told him about the suffragettes and her suspicions. About following the ribbons and finding the gunpowder. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

And Sherlock happened to be a genius.

Of course he knew that his mother had run off when the ground beneath her feet became too hot and her life came at risk. She had done so to protect Enola. Not that she had failed – not quite. But Sherlock couldn’t help but feel slightly embittered that his mother had dared to leave his sister on her birthday, when she had only turned 16 years old, to fend for herself. The result being that she now lived with him – a thing he was most definitely thankful for- but also the child in his study. And though he still did not really know what had exactly occurred, he did know it had been a traumatic situation. If his mother had not been involved in all these dangerous groups, putting her life and those of the ones she loved at risk, then Enola would have celebrated her sixteenth birthday at home, and her seventeenth birthday without a baby in her belly.

“Ah,” his mother said, catching his attention. He watched her as she glanced at the empty side of the couch she was on. But he knew that she had realised something, probably by his reaction.

In silence, he waited for her to turn her eyes back upon him again. Then he raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

“Enola is her own,” Sherlock said. His voice low and like gravel.

“I have always been telling her that,” Eudoria said with half a smile, like she was reminiscing her past with the girl. Then her dreamy expression faded and turned more serious again. “But there are others who would not see her for her worth.”

Sherlock watched her in silence again, supporting his head with his hand. “Like Mycroft?”

Eudoria rolled her eyes. “Your brother has never seen a lady’s value. Just because of her sex she is deemed beneath him.” Then, as an afterthought, “I wonder when he will learn. If ever…”

Sherlock knew she was thinking of their father. A brilliant man, but one who had difficulty of thinking of women as his equal. It was because of this that their parents had been in many quarrels and the atmosphere at their home had often turned sulphurous. It had been his father’s mind that had attracted his mother to him. His intelligence, his wit and his skills. But it had been his lack of understanding that had set them against each other. That had his father lay his hands on his mother in the violent way. That had her learn fighting skills to defend herself and to retaliate if he tried again. But Enola would not know or remember that. Their father passed away not long after she was born, when she was still little. He knew she had been shielded from the terrors that had been at the Holmes home and that had driven him and his brother away.

 _His father had never learned._ Somehow he doubted if Mycroft ever could _. They looked too much alike_ , Sherlock mused.

But Sherlock had. He knew that he had never really thought of women and their rights and prospects. He had not denied them as people either. But it wasn’t until he re-met Enola as a blossoming teenager that he had started to think about the predicament of her sex. The unfair treatment of her because she had fallen victim to a crime, the little possibilities her future held for her despite her brilliant mind and perfect detective skills, her talents that would be wasted if Mycroft had his way and she’d been put in one of those awful schools for girls. Realising the life his sister had ahead of him without his help had truly opened his eyes.

“That is why I am proud of you,” his mother said, as if breaking into his thoughts and explaining that Enola changing him was exactly what she had hoped for all of these years. He felt his throat go dry. The pat on the shoulder, even if only with words, by his mother made him feel admired. Even loved. And he was not used to this feeling. Not even from her.

He wanted to tell her that Enola was an excellent detective. He wanted to tell his mother that Enola had stood on her own, had fought criminals and had defended herself even when she had been carrying their baby around (in her belly and out of it). He wanted to tell her of the birth, how brave Enola had been and how strong. About how quickly she seemed to recover after. How well she treated their child. How she looked at Sonance with love-filled eyes. How brilliantly accurate and helpful her sketches were and how the police had managed to solve many cases using them. Or how funny she was when they sat around the table with Holmes and they’d be doing riddles and she would end up telling them witty jokes.

Instead he said nothing.

His mind turned to other things. Should he offer Eudoria tea? Would she think him terribly rude that he hadn’t done so yet? Was it okay for him to feel angry for her being as detached and estranged a mother to him as he was a distant and estranged son to her? But the thought most in the front of his mind was to get Sonance. He didn’t want to leave the baby boy on his own for too long. 

As if she read his mind, his mother, who had been shifting nervously on her seat accompanied by the crinkling and rustling sounds of her skirts against the leather of the couch, looked up at him again and asked him, “Is he here?”

She had said before that she knew of the child, so he assumed she meant Sonance. “Yes.”

Her eyes lit up. Not even the shadows of her hat could hide that. “May I see him?”

She asked it timidly, but he heard the slight waver in her voice. The eagerness, the fear of being denied this request, was hidden within. She was a grandmother now, after all. Sherlock couldn’t blame her for wanting to meet her grandchild.

He nodded and pushed himself of the couch. Within a few strides he was at the study’s door, then paused to look at Eudoria from over his shoulder. She looked back at him, her face emotionless but for the hopeful spark in her eyes. Then he went in to get Sonance.

Sonance was half asleep when he got to the cradle, which explained his silence. Carefully, he lifted his son in his arms, taking his favourite blanket along. With the child on his arm he returned to the living room. The change in his mother’s eyes was instant and no matter how well she had trained herself in hiding her emotions, she could not help that her mask cracked. Wrinkles of joy formed next to her eyes and her lips parted in a soft smile. _Pride,_ he saw it upon her face. _Recognition_ , she recognised the child as her own blood. _Happiness_. And then there were the tears in her eyes. Tears of joy and love.

“Mother, meet Sonance Holmes.”

Sherlock showed off his son with pride, holding him on his arms for his mother to see. He could see how Eudoria’s fingers itched but also how she tried to withhold herself from reaching for the child unasked.

“A pleasure,” his mother said as she bent over Sonance to study his little face. Sonance had cracked open an eye and was frowning at her. Then, a small noise of annoyance escaped his lips – as if he was angry that he was being disturbed in his sleep. Eudoria had to smile at this, clearly enamoured with her grandchild.

Because of this, Sherlock decided to do what he did next. He held out his arms, offering Sonance to his mother. She looked at him in surprise, her lips parted. Once she understood that she was allowed to hold her grandson, her lips formed a small smile and she gently took him from Sherlock’s arms.

“Such a handsome little fellow,” Eudoria cooed, then started to brabble to Sonance, whose brown eyes lit up and who started to brabble back.

Sherlock watched them for a while, His mother’s shoulders seemed to relax the longer she held her grandchild, and Sonance’s babbling got louder and more excited the more they interacted. It was a heart-warming sight if he ever saw one.

She reached out a hand to place it on his tiny hand, but Sonance had other plans. The tiny baby fist enclosed around her finger and a small noise of excitement escaped her throat.

“Did you see that?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at Sherlock.

“I think he recognises you. You are his grandma after all.”

“Me,” Eudoria smiled and shook her head. He could hear her chuckle softly, “a grandma…”  
  
He could hear the silent, _who would have thought,_ and he wondered what her precise thoughts would be right now. It was obvious that she was already reaching an age where most women had grandchildren walking around. She would have expected them from Mycroft or from himself, but that expectation must have died with the years that had passed. Neither of them had shown any signs of wanting to settle and build a family life. Of course she had hidden the hope of that to one day happen. Perhaps she had hoped for Enola to provide her with a grandchild, but then surely not as quickly as she had, Sherlock thought. His mother had trained Enola to go her own sweet way and be independent. And everyone knew that a child meant dependence in some form or way. At least, until women truly had a vote and a voice in society. He wondered if they could achieve that. Could his mother and the suffragettes? Could Enola? Would he help them?

“Looking at him he is so familiar,” Eudoria said, carrying the conversation while she let Sonance toy with the fingers of her hand. “Much like you and your siblings were.”

At this point Sonance had started to giggle. He brought Eudoria’s fingers to his mouth and tried to fit his entire fist inside with Eudoria’s finger and all. He then let out a mewl and a huff when his grandma’s finger blocked the way. He attempted to take part in the conversation by making noises that nearly resembled words to show his displeasure with the entire situation and Eudoria could not help but laugh. “He’s definitely the son of Enola all right,” she said. “The same smile, and the same look of annoyance.”

She looked up at Sherlock. He had heard the silent ‘but’.

“He has Enola’s eyes as well,” Sherlock helpfully provided, knowing that he recognised her in the baby boy as much as he could. But he knew by the gaze of his mother, that now rested upon him, that she had seen the differences as well and wondered about it.

“Yes, he has Enola’s eyes,” she murmured, though he could hear the hesitation and doubt within her voice. “Well,” she seemed to harden under his gaze, her shoulder tensing again. “I suppose I shan’t ask about the father then. Enola may do with her life as she pleases, it is her happiness I want after all.”

Sherlock almost wanted to correct her and tell her that this was by no means a decision his sister had made. But his mother was quicker. She handed Sonance back to him, effectively silencing him as he took his son from her arms and cradled him to his chest. Sonance let out a wistful sigh, but his tiny hands reached out for his grandmother. Eudoria saw the gesture and Sherlock could tell it touched her. Her eyes softened again. Sonance was a weakness to her, he now knew. Like his son had become a weakness to them all.

“Can I ask why?” Eudoria asked, and Sherlock looked at her to try and determine what it was that she asked of him. Then he caught her glance around his apartment which contained a mixture of things belonging to Enola and belonging to him. And then he remembered the guise under which he acted.

“It seemed safer,” He said. “Any other situation would have meant the end of her career.”

Eudoria nodded. She reached for her purse which had been dropped next to the couch when she’d reached for Sonance earlier. She sat down again and Sherlock followed her lead, sitting opposite of her, Sonance still in his arms. His son was studying his grandmother curiously and was extremely quiet while doing so.

“I nearly forgot. Congratulations, _uncle_ Sherlock,” she said, a small smile on her lips.

He wondered if she understood that they pretended to be married. Or if she thought he just lived with her as a brother protecting his sister from the outside world. _No_ , he realised _. If she had read any of the papers then she must be aware of how Enola was always described to be his Mrs_. His mother was no fool and she read a lot. She must be aware, he thought, and silently gave her credit for not showing disgust or raising the matter with distaste. Instead, she let them be.

“Thank you,” he responded, curtly nodding his head again.

Like the silent dance they had done before, they sat staring at each other. In his arms he felt Sonance getting restless. The only sound in the room that of the pendula ticking.

“Sherlock, I do hope you know why I had to disappear? That I did not want to leave Enola like I did. But I-“

“You had not other choice,” Sherlock said, and Eudoria’s eyes widened because her son knew. “Yes,” she breathed. And then she said again, “yes.”

They both fell quiet again and Sonance said something that sounded rather a lot like ‘Nola’.

“I know I may not ask for it, but I do hope you can forgive me for the choices I have made,” Eudoria then started, her eyes drifting from Sherlock back to Sonance. “And most of all, that Enola can forgive me.”

Sherlock waited for her to fall silent and watched her bite her lip. “You should ask for that yourself,” he calmly said. Now it was his mother’s turn not to answer.

He watched her as she slid her hands past her skirt, smoothing the crinkled fabric. A tell-tale sign that she was about to leave. Then she looked up at him and he could see the honest passion glowing in her eyes. “Sherlock, if there’s ever anything you need…” Her voice trailed off, but Sherlock understood her offering.

She would outface any danger to support them, he realised with a start. Enola brought out a range of protective emotions in him, and in a similar way, Enola did the same to her. Eudoria might not have returned to help him, but she would help her daughter. Both painful as well as comforting to know.

“I need for you to be here for Enola. Speak to her,” _show her your motherly support_ , he thought.

And then his mother disappointed him with an answer he somehow had expected from her, “I can’t.”

He was ready to retort to that, to give her reasons why she should, but this time, she beat him to it. “I can’t stay much longer as I am due elsewhere,” she said, glancing at her watch. “However, I will return for her, to talk to her. I miss her, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded. He knew what she meant. Of the many people he had met during his life he had hardly ever missed anyone. Not even her, his own mother. But Enola, she was different. He missed her even now, and she’d only be gone a couple of hours.

Eudoria rose from her seat and dusted her skirt, smoothing the crinkles out. It was a clear sign she was ready to leave, and thus Sherlock followed her example by rising from his seat and making his way to the door to open it for her. She gratefully accepted his gentleman-like offer and made her way to the threshold, but paused when she stood next to him.

“I will return, I promise,” she said as a whisper, and then took him by surprise when all of a sudden she threw her arms around him and pulled him in for a hug, careful not to squash Sonance between them but tight enough to show Sherlock that she truly cared about him. He could feel her breath on his skin and heard her whisper near his ear. “Take care, Sherlock.”

And with that, she left, casting one last glance at her grandson from the bottom of the stairs before she was gone.

Sherlock made his way to his window to watch the silhouetted back of his mother as she made her way through the crowd. “See that, son?” He muttered to Sonance. “That was your grandma.” And then, after a beat. “Aren’t you lucky she cares about us?”

\--

As Eudoria elbowed her way through London to the new lair where she had found a place safe to stay as well as work on her gunpowder plot, her mind was completely distracted.

To see her son, Sherlock, looking at the child in his arm with such fierce love – it had completely baffled her. _So there was heart in him after all._

But meeting Sherlock and seeing him wasn’t what had undone her. _No._ It had been meeting Sonance.

“Who did this to you, Enola,” she whispered to herself more than to anyone. _It could not have been Sherlock,_ she thought, despite the love and care she'd seen within him as he held the child. And she knew her daughter was too clever a child to end up in a situation like this. A few strangers looked up as she passed them by, hearing her mumble. “Whoever the bastard is he won’t get away. _I promise_. I’ll look after you.”

And with that silent promise to right her wrongs, and all of her intention pinned on discovering what the hell had happened to her child, she started to form a plan. “I'll get to the bottom of this," she whispered, seeing Sonance in front of her mind's eye. _Speaking of eyes_ , those dark eyes of his came to mind again. Brown eyes like Enola has. But also....  
  
Her resolve hardened when a thought hit her.

"Of course...." _How could she_ not _have made the connection before?_  
  
"It’s time we have a talk, **Viscount of Tewkesbury**.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, it seems a member of the Diogenes Club has taken interest in a certain object....


	11. How a painting came into his hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A safe place for the painting is found....

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

\--

11

\--

“Of course not, Sherlock!” Enola’s excited cry followed by her giggling had him smile brightly.

It had been a few days after their mother had surprised him with a visit. Naturally he had told Enola of this in full detail, and though Enola had been angered at first that she had missed her mother over such a silly and useless case – _she’d even been down the sewers to find clues but it turned out the key that had supposedly been stolen was just lying underneath the fruit basket in the drawing room all this time!-_ she now had calmed down and said she could wait for their mother to appear again.

 _Such self-control, especially for her_ , Sherlock thought. Enola had never been good at playing thewaiting game.

She had even toyed with the idea of sending their mother a message via the newspaper to give her a time and place to meet, but Sherlock had advised against that. _What if someone else cracked the code?_

She would have to wait patiently, and although she’d been anxious for a few days after the visit, she had now turned completely to her normal self.

Watson joined her in her laughter. They had just been musing over the details of a new case. Sonance was on Enola’s arm, giggling along. How he loved to see them like this. _The boy was growing so fast,_ he thought with a feeling of melancholy.

Enola looked up at him, having noticed his quietness, and cast him a smile upon what she found in his gaze. _Love, probably_ , he mused. _Or else, admiration_.

“Well, it is something that only _you_ could think of,” Watson jested, winking at Sherlock. “Right?”

Sherlock huffed. “I made no preposterous assumptions. If the man went swimming and then lost his junk-”

“Junk journal, Sherlock,” Enola interrupted him with a groan.

Watson joined in, “Only _you_ could make such a thing sound _salacious_.”

Sherlock shrugged and gave them one of his most innocent expressions, as if he didn’t understand what was wrong with the sentence that he had just said. Watson silently eyed Enola who was looking back at him with a smirk. “It’s not a case of bad stitches,” she then said, “or a hole in one’s pockets. It’s a simple case of being negligent. Why take a journal with you when you go off like that? Where was he going to keep it without getting soaking wet?”

Watson was still stifling his giggles when Sherlock rolled his eyes and rose from his seat. “I get it. Two against one,” he muttered, then made his way to the hearth. He stood in front it for a moment, deep in thought while the others behind him were still chuckling and giggling. Then he made his way to a corner of the room where he rummaged through their belongings until he came across a large package. Behind him, the laughter grew softer.

Sherlock lifted the packed painting off the ground. _A pity_ , he thought _, it is such a grand masterpiece_. Enola looked lovely and lifelike. And their son… well, he looked radiant and cute, like in real life too. Just looking at the two of them, drawn, he felt a tug at his heart. This was where his love resided and probably had for all those years when he had thought himself incapable of loving anyone but himself. With _them_.

He saw this love reflected in their eyes when he watched them. Not in the painting, but in reality. It was a shame that they had no space in their apartment for it, no place where he could showcase it. It would be stuck on the ground, hidden behind layers of their stuff and at risk of tiny child hands and feet, once Sonance would start to walk. And judging by how he was pulling himself up by the chair nowadays, Sherlock thought such days would be here soon. But perhaps, if they could store it somewhere safe, they could hang it in their home one day. When they lived somewhere _bigger_. – Oh yes, he had those dreams. Although he hadn’t shared them with Enola yet.

“So you’re going to bring the painting there?” It was her voice that he heard behind him. Her tone was curious, even though he had already informed her during breakfast this morning that he would be going to the club today and take the painting along.

Sherlock merely grunted as a reply while he carefully took the painting out of the stacked piles of boxes and crates that they used to store their items in. He had to treat this work delicately. He heard Sonance mumble something that sounded a lot like ‘daddy silly’, which made his lips twitch into a smirk. _Things really were going fast these days._

“Well, hurry then, you grumpy old goat,” Enola said the moment he had turned around with the painting in his hands. He raised a brow.

“Goat?”

“Well, have you ever heard yourself when you go down the stairs? You grunt like an old goat.”

 _Old? Him?_ He looked at Watson for support, but his friend was looking at him in a way that he didn’t particularly trusted. Watson’s eyes were gleaming and when Sherlock looked closely, he saw the twitch at the corners of Watson’s lips, as if he tried to subdue a smile. “Watson?” Sherlock said, the name alone being a question in itself.

“Sorry, Sherlock, she’s right you know,” his friend replied. And now the smile broke through and Sherlock knew that he had been right. No support to be found here.

“Must be old age,” Enola muttered while she toyed with Sonance’s hands. The boy was actively squeezing her fingers, but then caught a strand of her hair and pulled. She let out a yelp and Sherlock couldn’t help but think that it served her well for making a fool out of him.

“If it were old age,” Watson said, “you could help it with oiling. Then again,” here he paled slightly as he seemed to realise something, “I would had a lot of oiling myself. I’m older than you, recall? And _I_ don’t grunt.”

 _Doesn’t he?_ Sherlock thought amused. “But my dear Watson,” Sherlock said, exposing his sharp white teeth, an act that sent a shiver down John Watson’s spine, “but you _do_ seem to require a lot more oiling than me. If I recall correctly most of it happens in the early hours of the evening down at the pub. You seem to like your whiskey and scotch.”

Watson’s horrified expression met Enola’s curious one as he turned his head to look at her. “Never during cases,” Watson apologetically said to her. “He means off duty.”

 _So he had a drinking habit, hmm?_ Enola had to hold her laughter while Sherlock enjoyed his revenge. His poor friend was left watching over Enola and Sonance with a red blush on his cheeks out of embarrassment, and as Sherlock left the apartment he could hear Watson’s panicking voice as he tried to explain that he was definitely _not_ an alcoholic.

\--

“Curious,” Mycroft said as he leaned backwards in his chair.

“It is so,” Lestrade commented, taking a sip of his very dark cup of tea. The others liked to jest the fact he hardly put in any milk. But by now, every member of the Diogenes Club had grown used to Lestrade’s odd habits.

Next to him, Baron Maupertuis shifted in his chair. “It will be difficult to keep this quiet though,” he said, his low baritone voice rumbling through the room. Around them, other gentlemen were sat around small round tables, drinking, playing cards and smoking their pipes. The green wallpaper on the walls had become tainted by the smoke, and new swirls of gold had recently been applied to make everything look fresh again. Mycroft thought he could still smell the paint, teasing his nostrils like an odour sharper than the alcohol the baron by his side was drinking. “Especially,” Baron Maupertuis continued, “from our newest member.”

He looked at Mycroft pointedly, the latter knowing exactly what the baron was on about.

“He will have read it anyway,” Lestrade said, eyeing the baron and then Mycroft. He was probably studying them to see their reactions. And as he watched Mycroft, his eyes narrowed, as if he had spotted something there. Mycroft wondered what it could it have been. He hardly showcased his emotions after all. Unless it were disgust or disapproval. _Wait, had he shown a sign of either of them?_

He stared back at Lestrade in turn.

“The two of them will keep doing these sort of things in the future together. There isn’t much within my power that I can do to stop them and get them to lie low,” Mycroft said. “Unless you want me to use force, which seems out of proportion to me.”

The other two nodded and hummed. Baron Maupertuis was smoking a pipe and looked thoughtful while doing so.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair with a faint smile on his face. “No, Mycroft, that would be unnecessary. But I would advise you to get your sister to lie low. Solving an important case is one thing, but battling a criminal on the run with a baby tied to her chest is another. Not only is it vulgar, it is also dangerous for the child! And as your nephew, that should worry you!”

“It does worry me,” Mycroft said, realising with a start that he actually meant the words as he said them. The thought that either Enola or her child could have gotten hurt seemed to stir something unwanted inside of him. _Was it because of the boy,_ he wondered? _Was it because the child was the only next generation Holmes there was and possibly ever would be?_

Whatever the reason, he would always deny it. And so instead, he said, “the stain that is made upon our reputation is a vile one. If she were still eligible for marriage then it would be less bold, because her name could change and the deed could be forgotten. But as a Holmes I must protect the name that belongs to my family. She must lay low.”

 _And,_ Mycroft thought, _she truly must be more careful with my nephew_. The thought of his sister getting hurt repulsed him and frightened him, but the thought of the young, innocent child to even break a leg or gain a bruise was so much worse.

It had been his greatest fear to see Enola submerged in a life of shame and pain. He had tried to shield her from it in the best way he thought he could. But granted, he might have panicked. Sherlock’s approach seemed like it could have been better. There was promise there. His brother saw things as brightly and clearly as he did, sometimes even better.

And Mycroft thought that Sherlock as Enola’s guardian would have been the better thing.

 _If he hadn’t turned out to be an incestuous bastard_ , Mycroft thought. How could his brother have fooled him so? To beg for Enola’s guardianship just to keep her _close_ to him. _Closer than was proper_.

Mycroft had not seen this coming. Then Sherlock had blackmailed him into this tryst. _What was he to do?_ This were his brother and sister, _damnit_. Their names were all over the papers. People assumed they were a couple. Their child, _his nephew_ , and his future were on the line. He could not let them down. He would not allow for his nephew to be propelled into a life of ridicule like that. _He had made too many mistakes already._

“You said ‘if she’d still be eligible for marriage it’d be less of a thing’, Mycroft,” Baron Maupertuis said, looking at him questioningly, “How would her deeds have an effect upon your family if she wasn’t part of it?”

 _Shit._ He had forgotten that the baron was unaware of Enola being his true sister. The baron thought her to be married into the family. Nervously, he glanced at Lestrade, who eyed him back with a silent assurance.

“It would affect my family none, and that’s why I said it would have been a good thing,” Mycroft quickly said, noticing the confusion upon the baron’s face. At least he accepted the explanation and grew quiet again.

The three sat in silence, smoking and drinking, when the door opened and a familiar face came in. Lestrade caught side of him first and elbowed Mycroft, who looked up. But Baron Maupertuis was the first to comment. “Well, talk about the devil,” and then louder he said, “Welcome, Sherlock. We were just talking about your newest feature in the newspaper. Care to sit and tell us all about it?”

Sherlock glanced at him from the corners of his eyes but made his way past their table. They had immediately noticed the large package he was carrying the size of a painting. “Now, come on,” the Baron complained when Sherlock passed him by.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft nodded crudely to acknowledge his brother’s presence. He had to, now that they were in the clubhouse of their gentlemen’s league. The Diogenes Club had their own building and within, the rule was that the men had to acknowledge each other, whilst outside they were obliged to ignore the other’s presence.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock returned the greeting. “Baron Maupertuis, Lestrade,” he had halted in his step to look at them. “I am just here to deliver something, then I’ll be on my way.”

“No time to tell us about the dangerous stunt your lady pulled?” Baron Maupertuis asked. They noticed how Sherlock’s eyes darkened. “I’d rather not,” he said, then loomed over them to see what newspaper laid between them. He put the package down, holding it with only one arm and trapping it against his body to keep it in balance, so he had one hand free to pick up the paper while his eyes traced the article that lay exposed. Then, he folded the paper and put it inside of his pocket without asking.

Lestrade looked at him suspiciously. “I take it you hadn’t seen this yet?”

Sherlock huffed, which was all the reply they would get, and Mycroft knew that Lestrade had been right. The article in the newspaper was new to Sherlock, even if it was about him and Enola. And it mentioned their child.

“All right then,” Lestrade let out a sigh and looked at Mycroft again. Sherlock, in the meanwhile, had picked up his package, which was evidently a large painting, and was about to leave them when the baron stopped him with another question.

“Ah, Sherlock, have you heard of our newest member yet?”

“Another face to recognise and to forget,” Sherlock replied coolly. “Should I have?” He stood in front of them, tall and calm, with the painting between his arms and tipping over.

“Well, it is a rule not to ignore each other whilst we are here,” Mycroft said, knowing that their newest member might cause a bit of a problem. After all, not many people knew Sherlock and Enola’s secret, and Mycroft rather kept it that way. “I would think that at least knowing his name or title would be of help.”

Sherlock remained silent, but Mycroft could sense his impatience. He acted nonchalantly about it though, sipping from his own cup of tea like the news he brought was of no consequence to him, while it very much was. “Besides, you already know him. I believe you’re acquainted even.”

“Who am I to congratulate?” his younger brother finally asked, and Mycroft answered.

“The Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether.”

A shadow fell over Sherlock’s eyes, but Mycroft knew that look. He was angry, probably sensing the danger that would put Sherlock and Enola in. Not many people knew they were related after all, but the viscount knew.

But there was something else in Sherlock’s gaze as well. _Jealousy?_ Mycroft hadn’t know much about the case Enola and his brother had worked on, separately at the time. The one of the missing viscount. He had not really spoken to the young lad yet either, nor to his very own siblings about it. _Interesting,_ he thought. Perhaps he should sit down with him one day to ask him about the case. But could he truly sit down with his own brother when he knew that Sherlock held such distasteful desires?

“Oh Sherlock, the rules are the rules,” Mycroft said. He got the feeling he might have missed something somewhere along the line. Perhaps if he hadn’t been as frightened of Enola’s possible fate, with the way she had been raised and had exposed herself, then perhaps he would have paid more attention to her and his brother before all of this had happened. He had missed the signs in Sherlock, had not seen that he had handed his sister to a predator with incestuous intentions. Sherlock had brought a stain upon the name of Holmes, Mycroft had seen the evidence for that. But… what else might he have missed?

Apparently just raising the name of the viscount set off a whirlpool of emotions within his brother’s eyes. A brother who, just as he, had grown excellent in shielding his feelings and masking his thoughts.

“I know,” to anyone who would not really know him, Sherlock’s answer sounded bored and monotonous. But Mycroft could taste anger and bitterness underneath.

“Will you tell us about your latest case once you’re done?” The baron asked, diverting both brothers from their thoughts.

Sherlock looked at him with a small smirk. His eyes started to gleam again. “Sure,” he said. “My latest case, once it’s done.” He then moved away from them and disappeared into the adjacent storage room with the package. Lestrade looked at Mycroft with an unbidden question written all over his face. _‘Shouldn’t we have asked about the painting?’_ he mouthed. But Mycroft pursed his lips and did the tiniest shake of the head to indicate that ‘ _no’_ , they would investigate later, after all.

The oldest Holmes brother then turned to the baron and grinned. “And that will be the last we’ve seen of him today,” he said, almost sounding cheerful as he twirled at the edges of his moustache. “It’s a clever game of semantics, dear sir. You asked him to tell about his _latest case_. He’s not coming back here to chat with us until he has solved whatever case he’s working on right now. A pity. I would have loved to hear more.”

Baron Maupertuis groaned when he realised that Mycroft was probably right about this. “Pity indeed,” he said in a flat voice. “To have been tricked by a mastermind. I would have loved to hear all the gory details about this one. I wish I could see Enola kick that Webster lady’s _arse.”_

 _Such coarse language._ All three men cracked a smile as they envisioned Enola fighting off another woman.

“And this,” Mycroft said sardonically, “is the reason why we pretend not to know each other outside of the club.”

\--

As predicted, Sherlock left the storage room without the package and avoided their table on his way out. With Sherlock gone, Mycroft couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer. He quickly rose from his seat with an apology and made his way into the storage room his brother had just came from. He switched on the light to find Sherlock’s package against the far end wall. Without wasting any time he stepped over to it.

Behind him he could hear familiar footsteps and moments later Lestrade appeared in the doorway. He ducked underneath the electricity cable to follow Mycroft inside.

“Maupertuis?” Mycroft asked him, having turned around to face his friend.

“At the table, playing cards with Sir Reginald.”

Mycroft nodded satisfied at Lestrade’s answer before he turned back to the package again. “A painting,” he said as he walked up closer. “I wonder what of.”

“Unpack it,” Lestrade said. “I’ll keep watch.” And as promised, he kept hovering in the doorway with his hands in his coat’s pockets. From here he had a view into the room full of gentlemen whilst he could watch Mycroft busy himself unpackaging.

The brown paper fell to the floor, revealing a large colourful canvass. Mycroft would have gasped if he had been any other man. There, upon the canvass, was the likeness of his sister. On her arm he recognised his nephew. Her red skirts swirled around her as she kicked one leg high, her brown boot showing, and a feeling of pride rose inside of Mycroft’s chest.

“It’s very realistic,” he could hear Lestrade say.

 _Beautifully done_ , Mycroft thought while his fingers traced the dried up paint. This was her, drawn like some sort of warrior goddess. But at the same time, she was all _mum_. 100 percent protective motherhood he saw, and it was inspirational.

“Now what is this?” Mycroft frowned as he studied the painting that stood in front of him. “Curious,” he murmured.

“The Marquess of Basilwether is said to collect art,” Mycroft looked at Lestrade meaningfully.

“We can’t risk that painting being taken away by him,” Lestrade helpfully provided. “It’s not safe here.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Mycroft said. He then hummed thoughtfully, though both men knew that he had already taken a decision. “As Sherlock’s brother and next of kin I feel obliged to store this family loom somewhere safer.”

“A wise decision,” Lestrade said, playing along.

Mycroft traced his hand past the dried paint, feeling the ridges where the layers were thicker at her skirt, and then traced his fingers past his nephew’s painted cheek. He murmured, “a wise decision indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Enola's secret is spilled.....
> 
> * I realise I have turned Mycroft in some sort of Alice of Alice in Wonderland. Curious....  
> ** Have a question but too shy to ask it on AO3 here? Why not send me a message on [ Insta ](https://www.instagram.com/jokeringcutio/) or follow me if you already happen to be on there for updates and titbits


	12. How a secret became known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everyone who hears was supposed to hear this.

[ ](https://ibb.co/Z823Bfn)

\--

12

\--

When Enola returned home from her latest case she was surprised to find her mother sitting upon the couch, waiting for her.

“Enola,” Eudoria couldn’t seem to suppress a careful smile upon seeing her daughter and grandson enter the room. Enola noticed this instantly. Her mother was happy to see her, and so was she.

Shock, disbelief, and then happiness followed each other in a rapid pace. With Sonance on her arm she hurried towards her mother, not asking how she got in without a key or without either of them being here. Sherlock was working a separate case for Mycroft with Watson while Enola had taken Sonance out on an innocent walk through the city (aka, a trip to investigate a few places for a different case that she was working along with Sherlock in their spare time). Mrs Hudson probably had let Eudoria in. She knew Eudoria was _Sherlock’s mum_ , after all.

“Mother,” her voice came out as a sigh while she squeezed her eyes shut. The embrace was as tight as they could, with Sonance carefully between them.

“He’s sleeping,” Enola apologised when the hug broke and she saw her mother’s eyes wander down to the child in her arms. “I’m going to put him in his cradle and see if he can sleep for a little while longer so we can catch up.” She was already on her way to his cradle when she seemed to remember something, then she halted in her step to look at her mother.

“Or will you have to be off soon?”” she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

But her mother just smiled kindly. “I have nowhere to be this afternoon.” It was the answer she had hoped for, and as Enola turned around again to bring Sonance to his cradle, she could not help but to smile brightly.

Her mother was here, in her own living room, for _her_. It was a wish come true. Like Christmas had come early.

Once Sonance was in his cradle, she rushed back to her mother’s side – trying very hard not to actually run to show her eagerness, but damn, it was hard. She flung her arms around her other’s shoulders and pulled her close.

“ _Mum,”_ her voice came out a mutter against her mother’s skin.

Eudoria let out a chuckle as she returned the hug. “Have you missed me, Enola?”

Enola snickered, her lips brushing past Eudoria’s neck. “Me? I have been doing rather well all by myself.”

It was a good thing she could not see her mother’s expression falter at this. “Yes,” Eudoria replied, but hesitatingly. “I can see that you have.”

The two stood in their tightly locked embrace for a while, enjoying the silence of the room and nothing more but the sound and feel of their heartbeats pressed together.

Eudoria then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Oh, how I have missed you, Enola,” she said. Her arms tightened around her daughter just a tiny bit more to emphasize her words.

The confession had Enola soften up. “ _I missed you too_ ,” she whispered. The thought of how she’d woken up to find her mother gone, how she had felt when she hadn’t known why her mother had left or where she had gone…. Those memories surfaced in that moment, but they were all blurry, as if seen through a haze. She could feel her own chest constrict with emotion, felt the suffocating feel of the uncertainness of the entire situation when she’d been looking for her mum and discovering her own survival skills along the way. Oh, she had learned a lot this past year. More than she had bargained for. But in a way she was thankful to her mum for having given her a chance to discover herself. She now knew her own strength and where her skills lay. She also knew she could love in a way she had never imagined before, Sonance being evidence for that. But at the same time, the whole experience had allowed her to explore her darker side too. Not only could she fight, she could maim and kill.

 _And those darker elements of her personality had to remain hidden from her loved ones at all cost_ , she had decided.

“ _Mother_ ,” she whispered again. Eventually their hug had to break in order for them both to catch some air and for their arms not to cramp. Enola smiled at her mother, seeing the love reflected in her mother’s tired eyes. _What had she been doing? Had she been on the run all this time? How much risk was she taking to visit her here?_ Enola wondered.

“You came all this way to see me,” she started.

“And Sonance,” her mother added before Enola could have said anything else.

“Yes, and Sonance,” Enola complied. She hesitated, bringing a finger up to her lips. Sherlock had told her how their mother had asked for their son last time she visited. And that she had held him with such love. How she very dearly wanted to see what Sherlock had. But Sonance was asleep right now and if her mother could stay for a little while longer, than all she needed was patience – a thing she seemed to lack. Her mother would hold Sonance later. After they had talked. “How do you feel about being a granny, eh?” Enola teased.

“Old,” Eudoria said with a small smile. But there was a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Old and incredibly lucky.”

 _Lucky, eh?_ Enola had to suppress a small smile of her own. Lucky they were indeed, for Sonance was the cutest, most gorgeous, sweet child that she could ever have dreamt of. How had she deserved a wonderful child like him? _How had such a personality been born out of a Holmes?_ she often wondered.

“I think he’s doing marvellously well, for being a Holmes, that is,” she truthfully replied, taking a seat and seeing how her mother followed her example. They sat next to each other on the couch, hands nearly touching. “I mean, he is such a sweetheart, never complains when I take him along on cases. If anything, he seems to enjoy it a lot! He can already roll over, pull himself up, crawl a little, grab onto things. Like, yesterday he handed me my brush when I was looking for it. Look at how clever he is! And he can’t even properly talk yet.”

“Well, you were quite slow at the start with talk as well,” her mother said, a pensive expression upon her face, like she was remembering Enola’s childhood.

Enola’s cheeks flushed. This was something she couldn’t remember, but she had always thought herself to be quite swift with her skills when growing up. That she had been a prodigiousness child. “Was I?” she stammered shyly by the revelation.

Her mother nodded and no doubt could read Enola’s expression. “Now, does that have you disappointed?”

Enola shrugged like she wasn’t. _She was though_.

“Don’t worry about it,” her mother said, the corner of her lips curling upwards again with a hint of mischief, “you made up for it _aplenty_ as you grew older.”

Enola gasped. “Are you saying I am a chatter now?”

Her mother laughed.

_And that was all she got._

“Well, that is an answer as good as any,” Enola huffed. She folded her arms in front of her and allowed for her eyes to come to rest upon the coffee table. Empty except for all the papers and documents that Sherlock had carelessly strown there, and the occasional lingering book that Enola hadn’t bothered to put back in its original place on their bookshelf. _Whoops._ One should offer a guest tea upon their arrival, but Enola was too occupied with her own thoughts and feelings to think of this. Her arms unfolded and she turned to her mother again with the intention of offering her tea, when Eudoria already spoke again.

“You like to talk, Enola. And I like to hear your voice.” This shut Enola up. She sat there, blushing slightly at the compliment. Once again her thoughts had run to the past year and the many months that she had been without her mother. Could she ever do the same? Leave Sonance on his birthday without a word? _No_ , she thought. Though she was certain she could leave him at the blink of an eye if it meant it would save his life. But on the day of his birth? _No way._

Her mother sighed, “Oh, how I missed it,” here she paused and then clarified, “hearing you.”

“I had hoped you’d come back sooner,” Enola admitted, leaning in slightly towards her mother. Just the scent of her mum’s perfume was bringing back a feeling of comfort and safety, along with a string of memories of their shared past. _Would Sonance have the same? Would he too recognise and be calmed by her scent?_

“I wanted to,” Eudoria started, but then her lips moved without words, as if she was searching for the right ones. “But I thought,” again she hesitated. Enola could tell by the way her mother’s eyes searched the room, left and right, though without actually looking, that she was thinking hard of what would be safe to say and share, until her mother finally concluded with a “well, it’s silly.”

 _Silly? What could be considered silly in her mother’s brilliant mind_? Enola wondered. “No, mother,” she urged, her own hands clasping each other in her lap as she leaned in a tiny bit further. “What was it that you thought?”

“That you’d be better on your own,” Eudoria finally said, and Enola leaned backwards again. She should have expected this answer. And it made her swell with pride to know her mother had believed in her, always, from the very beginning _. Enola. Alone_. She didn’t need anyone else if she could trust in herself. And her mother had been right. _In a way_ , Enola thought, _didn’t this count for everyone? That once you knew your own skills, once you started to get to know yourself and accept who you were, then you made a stable basis for any future? Future relationships? Future professions?_

“I knew you could manage,” Eudoria continued, “I knew you have all the skills and I didn’t want to distract you from doing what you do best. You were growing so rapidly, exploring all your skills. I just hadn’t thought-“

“Hadn’t thought what, mother?”

Eudoria reached for her hand and placed her own on top. Enola could feel the warmth of her mother’s skin and the comfort it instantly gave her. _So familiar_. Yet, at the same time, this small gesture was alarming. It was a gesture of comfort, but in combination with her mother’s uttered words, it was foreboding something bad. Like a bad emotion, or a bad thought. Especially when her mother gave her hand a gentle squeeze and looked up at Eudoria with frightful eyes.

“I am _sorry_ , Enola.” _Was that all?_

Enola almost felt relieved that that was all her mother had to say. A small smile played on her lips while she shook her head. “Don’t apologise, We know why you left,”

“You don’t know even half of it,” her mother muttered, and Enola thought this to be true. Perhaps this was the moment to push her mother for more information. She dearly wanted to know more about her mother’s missions. Why did she have to run? What was it she was involved in exactly? Enola could guess some of it, having seen the other women and the explosives. She knew her mother was an active participant of the suffragettes and eager to get the vote for women through parliament. But now that that had been done, what else was it she was aiming to achieve? Enola wondered what else her mother was fighting for?

“Then tell me,” she said, returning the gentle squeeze her mother had gave her hand.

Her mother looked away and let out a sigh.

 _Odd,_ Enola thought. She knew she wasn’t going to get a reply. Once again she had aimed too high. Her mother had once told her as a child that it was okay to be fishing for information, but the fishes would unfortunately not always bite. Her mother was a fish like that. One of those ones who lived in the deep dark of the ocean, far away from eager fishermen with their hooks. And even if a fisher boat came close to her she would just inspect the hook and leave it dangling, no matter how attractive the worm attached.

Enola hung her head. Some of her hair had slipped loose and she undid the knot she’d been wearing until all her hair was cascading down her shoulders. Downstairs she heard the creak of the wooden floorboards. Mrs Hudson must be having a visitor, by the sound of the heavier than usual footsteps she heard. She could also tell that Mrs Hudson was preparing tea by the sound of the kettle whistling.

“Enola,” her mother broke her thoughts. Not just by her words, which were spoken in a shaky tone that sent a shard of ice down Enola’s spine _. What the heck was this?_ _What was her mother going to do? Say goodbye forever?_ But also by her mother’s warm hands which had left her own to gently lift her chin. Eudoria’s fingers splayed over Enola’s cheeks, urging her gently to look up at her until their eyes locked. Enola could see the emotions swirl within them, could see that her mother was trying to be brave but something had her broken. _But what?_ It felt like her heart stopped at the sight. “I am sorry for leaving you in his hands,” those last few words became a whisper, as if it pained her mother more to say them than she had wanted to admit.

Enola started to panic and tried to jerk her head away to gain more distance form the frightful sight of emotions within her mother’s eyes. Eudoria reluctantly let go, her finger slipping off Enola’s cheeks until they rested upon her chest. Enola’s voice was rising, “Whose hands?” she asked, her eyes turning wild.

 _Mycroft?_ But she escaped his clutches, right?

 _Sherlock? Did she mean Sherlock_? But he was taking good care of her.

“Mother,” she asked again when all the answer she received was her mother’s bottom lip trembling and a tear forming in the corner of her eye. _No,_ Enola thought, _no way_. But her mother’s lack of reply seemed to confirm the thoughts that had swirled into Enola’s head at this. If it weren’t her brothers, then it must be-

“No, no, you can’t possibly know,” Enola gasped. At the same time she flung her mother’s arms aside with her own, increasing the distance by jumping off the couch and turning her back to her mother. Her very own mother, the woman who had birthed her, who had protected her and raised her to be a strong and independent woman. This woman sat here, crying tears because of her daughter's fate. But how the hell had she found out when even the brilliant minds of her brothers had not been able to? When she had Mycroft fooled and with him half of society? And Sherlock?

If her mother knew, did that mean Sherlock knew as well? Had she told him? Had he told her? Had he found out?

But no, Enola’s brain provided her, he could not have. If he had, he would have eluded to it, right? He had deliberately given her space time after time again to forget. And not knowing helped them both to forget this.

But now….

“When I heard you had a child I was shocked,” Eudoria seemed to have composed herself, though her voice still had a slight waver in it. A tear glistened in her eye, but the glistening wasn’t as bad as the trails that Enola could spot on her mother’s cheeks as she glanced at her from over her shoulder. She quickly looked away again, the sight of her mother crying too painful for her to bear. As were the words she knew her mother would be speaking. “I thought I had misheard them. But the woman who first told me is a good friend of mine. Works at the local hospital, St. Mary’s. She told me she had seen you brought in by Sherlock. He carried you in his arms, she said, called you his _wife_. I could not believe it,” Eudoria hesitated, then added, “did not _want_ to believe it when I heard the two of you lived together as husband and wife.”

But there was more, Enola just felt it in her bones. This wasn’t the thing that her mother apologised for. This wasn’t the man in whose hands she had been because her mother left their home.

“Mother,” she said, her own voice trembling. She tried to be brave, oh-so-brave. But she was taken back to that day. When the sky was already darkening outside and Sherlock held her in his lap during the bumpy carriage ride. Where her conscious has left her as well as her sanity until she woke up, sore all over, bleeding, but with a child on her chest. She had loved no man as much as she had her brother that night, for sticking by her side, for supporting her, for taking care of her. And she had never loved anyone as much as she loved her son. Not then, and not now. He was everything to her.

“Enola,” her mother said, possibly begging to see her daughter’s expression. But Enola kept her back to her mother, intentionally hiding her face. She felt the tears prick her eyes. She didn’t even hear the front door as it opened and closed, didn’t hear the creaking of the stairs as she stifled another sob.

“I know it was false,” the creaking stopped and the hallway became eerily silent as Eudoria continued towards her daughter’s back. “My son and my own daughter, both _intelligent_ creatures. They would know the risks, I thought. But I kept doubt until I had seen him with my own eyes. Your son. _Sonance_. Such a fitting name for a pretty child,” Eudoria’s voice trembled again. “He is such a pretty lad. You must be so strong.”

Enola had brought her hand to her lips and was covering her mouth from which ugly sobs were trying to spill forth. Her eyes were truly wet now, the tears already escaping and tracing a path much like the tears of her mother had done. With trembling shoulders she stood, not knowing how to respond to this little speech.

“What do you know, mum?” She managed to ask in between sobs. The trembling grew worse. It felt like her entire body was hurting because of the anxiety and the fear for what was to come next. That a man, even after such a long time, could make her feel _this ill_.

“Enough,” her mother simply replied. “I know he was a man who was after the viscount,” and here Enola froze completely. All of her attention was upon her mother’s voice. “I know he was hired by the dowager to kill him.”

When Enola still didn’t reply, her hands curled into fists at her side and her whole body shaking from emotion, her mother said, “Sonance might be a child sprouted by him, but he is still _your_ child. You carried him to term, knowing whose child he was and how he came to be. _Enola_ , I am so _proud_ of you.”

This broke her, and, without thought, Enola turned around and flung herself into her mother’s arms, sobbing loudly on her shoulder. Eudoria could not contain her own tears either, and let them stream freely until they soaked Enola’s loose hair. They sat there, Enola trembling in her mother’s arms.

 _Never had there been a more heart-breaking sight,_ Sherlock thought, as he watched through a crack, the door was already slightly ajar with his hand upon the doorknob. He quickly retracted his hand and stood silently in the hallway. He had been about to enter when he had heard his mother’s voice, and then caught the conversation. He hadn’t want to interrupt. But _this_ , this _sight_ gripped his heart. This sight, and those words. _A hitman,_ he thought. Enola had never mentioned that to him. _So she was probably chased when she was with Tewkesbury_ , he concluded. Closing his eyes for a moment he took a deep breath and imagined what it must have been like. _If only he could have been there to protect his sister_.

“How did you find out?” she whispered.

“They found evidence of a hitman, but Tewkesbury’s gran cleverly covered him up,” here they both grew silent with Enola processing the information. But then, Eudoria smirked. “You know that at first I thought the child to be Tewkesbury’s,” and Enola rolled her eyes at this. Her mother hadn’t been the first to think this. In fact, she knew that Sherlock had almost done the same when he had found out about her pregnancy. _What was it with people assuming him and her to be an item? Just because the young viscount had been leering at her_. She felt the tears in her eyes recede, her eyes still pricking of the tears that she had cried. But at least, a small smile made way to her lips again as she rubbed her sleeve past her nose. Her mother’s voice had softened again, almost becoming a whisper. “It was something in the eyes of Sonance that I did not recognise when I last visited. I took it upon myself to investigate, so I paid him a visit. He was confused not to say the least when I confronted him,” she said.

“You did?” Enola yelped. _Okay, so her mum had undertaken some action indeed_. But this was the exact thing she had been so proud to have avoided earlier with Sherlock. And now her mother had embarrassed her this way? She groaned, “you spoke to him about this?” And she had never bothered to take the time to inform him about her pregnancy or the birth of her child – and why should she have? The fact that she had been scared of his reaction, especially having noticed herself how much affection he seemed to held for her, _might_ have withheld her from seeking him out. But for the news to come to him this way? She groaned again and rubbed a hand over her face. _Good Lord._

“Well, I was convinced that he could be the father, but I took from his reaction that it was rather unlikely he was,” her mother stated matter-of-factly and with a shrug. Enola did not want to know what reaction she had received that made her conclude this. “Besides, he was quite shocked to find out you have a child. I would have thought you would have told him,” her mother looked at her with one of those expressions only your own mother can give you. One that is silently judgmental.

“Why would I have told him?” Enola looked back at her. “Mum! No, that’s not- Ugh!”

Her mother cracked a smile. “It’s your life, Enola. I am not here to meddle. It’s just that the poor boy seems to have lots of feelings for you and you should have cut that cord that had him dangling months ago.”

Enola rolled her eyes, if only not to look at her mother as she said this. _Had she left Tewky dangling?_ She liked to think not. “If he felt he was in league of winning my heart than it was his brain he needs to thank for that _,” or lower_ , she could not help but think. “I never did anything to make him believe I held affections. My mind was not set upon such things.”

This had Eudoria’s smile vanish and grow into something more serious again. Enola hadn’t even noticed her own comment was emerging such thoughts until her mother spoke again, “Enola, I tried to get to the bottom of this. I still do. That is, if you still want me to.... When I found out it wasn’t Tewkesbury I went in search of other clues. My next stop was to inquire at the police station, but they referred me to a certain Lestrade. So I went to Lestrade’s office at the Scotland Yard to look at the reports concerning the Tewkesbury case.”

Enola looked at her like she wanted to ask why she had gone to look at those files specifically, when there had been so many cases after, but then she put two and two together and realised that her mother must have deduced the time it had happened when she saw Sonance and heard his age. Count back enough months and the date of his conception was right bang in the middle of Enola’s search for her mother. And there was only one case she’d been working on then – albeit it being one she had stumbled upon by accident and not being a commission. And she had no doubt her mother had either broken in to look at the files or lured Lestrade away with some excuse or another so she could snoop around. _No one_ should get their hands on this information this easily. Especially not on the information of this particular case that concerned _her_.

“It was all in there, Enola. The blood at Basilwether Hall, a headwound, I read it in the coroner’s report at Lestrade’s office. There was a name but it had been blackened. But everything fell into place. How you encountered the viscount and helped him. How you brought him back. How did you manage to anyway?” Eudoria asked.

“He was a hitman,” Enola started as she tugged at a strand of her loose hair, possibly to calm her own nerves, “sent after the Viscount of Tewkesbury. We encountered him on the train. He tried to murder Tewky but _I_ was too clever for him. I pushed Tewky off and by doing so, we managed to escape. I saw him watching us from the train. I thought that would be the last we would see of him.”

She dried her nose with the sleeve of her dress while new tears threatened to fill up her eyes. How could her emotions swing this fast from one extreme to another? But she would be strong. If her mother had already found out about what had happened, would it be so bad as to confide in her?

“But then he appeared again when we were in the city and we got into a fight. I was following your ribbons, mother. I came across the explosives. But then, he was there, wearing his ugly bowler hat, carrying his ugly walking cane.”

Sherlock in the hallway grew quiet again when he heard Enola tell her tale. This was new, even to him. He had always assumed it had happened somewhere during her time with the viscount. But he had not known the man had worn a bowler hat and a cane. _Sophisticated almost,_ he thought, saving the facts. Nor had he known that it had happened because the man had been tracing the viscount.

“I was collateral damage, I suppose,” Enola said, trying to sound light-hearted about it. But there was a coarse edge to her words, making them sound sarcastic. “He was chasing Tewkesbury but he had seen me with him and wanted information on his whereabouts. He started off with an interrogation but I fought back. And then it turned into something more-“ her voice trailed off as the memories she had so hard tried to subdue emerged again. _The barrel, the water, the sound of his skin against her own, his breath down her neck._

“He had a very unconventional way of torturing, “ Enola said, the words coming out with great difficulty. “Which he did at the smithy’s. Making use of the water, I suppose. I can only be grateful it had cooled down,” she said with an ironic smile. Nothing about this was funny. Nothing at all.

Her mother looked at her like she didn’t quite understand what Enola meant, until Enola brought her hands up to her neck to imitate the grip the hitman had held upon her there. She then ducked her own head forward like he had done and gasped for air – though the latter had been entirely on accident and a reaction upon the memory. In her mind she was there again, felt his cold gloved hands upon her and felt the water swirl around her skin, effectively blocking her nostrils from air.

Now her mother understood, and her expression hardened.

Out of their sight, Sherlock closed his eyes. His hand curled into a fist while he gritted his teeth. This he knew. That the bastard had tried to drown her. But that he had done so while he had also done that, to her, at the same time, that was more than he could bear to know. To hear Enola recount the tale, in full detail, as he stood listening was too much. The description of the hitman’s face, of his clothes, of his hands upon her, of his hips against her, of the bastard trying to kill his sister once he was done with her. He saved it all to his brain, storing each titbit of information in a special room of its own. A room labelled Hatred.

“The explosion at our secret stack, that was you,” he heard Eudoria gasp.

Enola nodded. “I lured him there, deliberately.” Then silence. “Does that make me a bad person, mother? That I wanted him dead?”

Sherlock bit his tongue, but he wanted to say no. How could his sister doubt her own integrity when she had been through so much. She had lured him there perhaps, but it could all be written off as self-defence.

“But he wasn’t dead as I had hoped,” he heard Enola say after what he assumed had been a cuddle by their mother. Looking at them was something he couldn't bear any longer. The emotions he felt forced his eyes shut as he tried to control his own breathing. _That man had had his hands all over his sister, and he got off lightly._ Death was so much better than the fate he would have wished upon the man. “When I helped Tewky back to Basilwether Hall all the lights had been snuffed out. The place was drenched in complete darkness. That’s when he appeared again. He stood in the dark, watching us," Enola's voice started to tremble again. "He was smiling. Such a vile," she shivered, "lecherous smile. He wanted to do it again, mother. I saw it in the glint in his eyes. The glint that still hunts me at night and rouses me from my sleep. He had a gun, raised it, aimed it-“

Sherlock clenched his jaw as new detail after gory detail filled his mind’s eye. The darkness, the man shooting at Tewkesbury and his sister, then fighting them, slamming his sister to the floor, strangling Tewkesbury and his sister saving the boy by doing her famous corkscrew, effectively hurting the man who had placed a child in her which she wasn't aware of at the time. He didn’t hear Enola’s sobs as she told her mother that her move had killed the man. He couldn’t hear, because rage had taken over all of his senses and his ears were pounding with the sound of his rapid heartbeat.

With a step too loud, he stepped away from his own apartment door, the floorboards groaned under his weight, and down the stairs. His heavy footfalls alerted both Enola and her mother who looked up in surprise. Enola instantly rushed to the door to open it, only to notice the door was already ajar. With eyes wide, she opened it fully. Sherlock had come home, it was the only thought that run through her and her mother's head. Sherlock had come home and he had either heard or seen them, or perhaps both. _But for how long?_ Enola wondered. _For how long had he been listening?_ Throwing the door open fully, all she saw was Sherlock’s back as he opened the front door below and slammed it close behind him, leaving them to themselves.

And then Sonance started to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Sherlock has been blowing off some steam.


	13. How they became calm again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has run off after accidentally overhearing Enola's tale.

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

\--

13

\--

Enola watched as the door closed behind her brother. With tears in her eyes, she turned back to her mother, but otherwise she said nothing about what had just occurred. Eudoria stood looking at her child solemnly, realising that whatever Enola had disclosed to her, she probably had never shared with Sherlock before. _How much had he known? By the looks of it, not all,_ Eudoria concluded silently.

And then Sonance started to cry, _loudly_.

Both women turned towards the sound, Eudoria rising from her seat, before Eudoria turned back to see what her daughter would do. If Enola would go after her brother, Eudoria would pick up the child. She would not leave Sonance crying like this. The boy had been so sweetly asleep for such a long time. No doubt he could feel the tension in the house. She knew the baby would need to be comforted, like she knew her own daughter was in need of comfort too.

She saw how Enola hovered at the threshold, undecided whether to go after her brother or back inside to her child. She eventually chose the latter, closing the door and walking to Sonance’s cradle. She lifted him in her arms, cooed at him, and decidedly said she was going to change his diaper. _Which she then did_. A statement if any. Eudoria knew her daughter was trying to look brave, but she could tell that Enola was _shattered_ by what had just occurred.

Eudoria made her way to a tactical position from which she could both look out of the window as well as into the room adjacent where Enola was changing Sonance. She glimpsed out of the window, just in time to see her son disappear into the crowd below. He was angry, she could tell by his posture. His shoulders were tense and his pace rapid, his movements rigid like he was a wooden doll. The anger must be coursing through his veins for him to move like that. It was a sight Eudoria hadn’t seen in a while, the last time being when her husband had still been alive and had lain hands on her again, resulting in a nasty bruise. Sherlock had heard the slap and had hurtled himself into the room. She would never forget his eyes, wide and wild upon the sight of his father with his hand still raised. He had left home not long after, following his brother’s footsteps. She knew they had left because of how things had been at home. Eudoria had thought everything would have ended there. She’d done her duty as a wife.

Enola had been a wonderous happy accident. And one Eudoria hadn’t know she had needed.

With a sigh she turned back to her daughter who had now appeared in the doorway, Sonance on her arm. The sight made Eudoria smile, despite the sadness that was visible in Enola’s eyes. “Look at him,” she said, a small smile on her lips because how could she not be adored by this? “He’s growing so fast!”

“He is,” Enola confirmed, “growing rapidly. Perhaps he’s taking after Sherlock,” she said, and then swallowed harshly as she was probably reminded of how her brother had just left.

Eudoria raised a brow and wondered in silence whether the child’s true father had been tall or not. But this was not the time to ask. Instead, she wanted to distract her daughter from her worries and held out her hands. Their day had been filled with heavy emotions already and all she wanted was to lift the weight of those worries from Enola’s shoulders.

“Well, we shall see when he grows up, won’t we?’ She said, speaking comforting words while she held out her hands for the boy. She had come here to make things lighter for Enola, to have someone to share her pain with. Not to ruin things like it seemed she had – but how was she to know that her son would drop by to eavesdrop on such a sensitive matter?

“Can I hold him?” She asked, pushing all the questions and worries away.

“Sure,” Enola carefully handed Sonance to her mum and watched as she moved him to a comfortable position in her arms.

Eudoria looked down with a warm smile to see how sonance had calmed down. He was looking up at her curiously. His tiny hands were reaching fort her, his little fingers wiggling eagerly.

“Enola,” Eudoria whispered, her eyes not leaving her grandson. “Everything is going to be all right. You have a house here filled with love. And love will make everything well.”

As if he agreed, Sonance made small, happy bubbling noises and the two could not help but giggle, letting out the tension of the conversation prior.

They sat down on the couch again, Enola close to her mother and Sonance in Eudoria’s arms. The two women leaned over the child, smiling at him and encouraging him to make more of his happy sounds.

If the house wasn’t filled with love that could make everything right, it certainly was filled with happy baby mumbling. And that, Eudoria thought, was worth a lot too.

\--

“Sherlock?” Watson looked genuinely surprised when he saw his best friend and colleague was standing in front of his door. He had hardly opened it or the taller man brushed past him briskly, leaving him staring at the empty pavement in front of him.

“Well,” Watson said, tilting his head slightly as his brain processed what had just happened. He slowly turned around and closed the door behind him, stepping back into his apartment to find Sherlock bending over the table. Sherlock’s hands were gripping the table’s edges, his knuckles turning white. His teeth were gritted and his blue eyes wide with rage.

“What is going on?” Watson asked, justly so. It was a miracle he could keep his calm with his friend standing in front of him in such a state. It looked like Sherlock was going to create a murder case instead of solving one. And to be honest, Watson had never seen his friend show this much emotion, let alone any when the man wasn’t around his wife and child. Whatever was going on, it had to be really bad to have such an impact.

“I just walked in on Enola,” Sherlock said, pausing at an unfortunate moment. Watson blinked as he tried to put the puzzle pieces together and make sense of what his friend was saying. _Angry Sherlock, walking in on his wife, looking like he was about to murder someone._

“Another man?” Watson asked, his voice betraying his confusion. He could not imagine Enola to be one for adultery. She just didn’t seem to be the type.

But Sherlock growled and his wide feral eyes seemed to turn even wilder, so Watson assumed he was right. _Another man then_. “Sherlock, I don’t know what to say. I am sorry-“

He didn’t even get to finish his line because Sherlock interrupted him, having pushed himself away from the table to face Watson full on. “I can’t believe she would have kept this all hidden from me. From me! Of all people, you’d think she would confide in me!”

Watson stood rigidly, watching his friend numbly and not knowing what to say. “Of course,” he mumbled, “of course one would expect-“

“And to think he put his dirty hands upon her!” Sherlock continued enraged. “That he touched her and had his hands around her neck!”

“Wait?" Watson frowned, wondering if he heard that last thing correctly, and absentmindedly mumbled, “ _That’s some kink…_ ”

“You’d think?” _Oh, surely,_ Watson thought. Of all things, that was the thing Sherlock heard and chose to react to. He was met with angry blue eyes on his own eye level as Sherlock bent forward slightly, on purpose.

Sherlock was bristling. If the man was famous for showing no emotions, then this was the complete opposite, and it scared Watson witless.

“Some vile bastard has defiled the woman I love, and I let it happen!”

Now poor Watson completely lost the game. He stood there, hands by his sides but palms up, completely at a loss for words. “You were there?” He said, looking at Sherlock like he could not believe another word of this conversation. “You were there and you watched?” He shook his head in disbelief, his hand curling into his hair. “I have heard of agreeable husbands trying to please their ladies, but don’t you think that this is you taking it a bit too far?”

“What?” Sherlock looked at him quizzically. The wildness was still there in his eyes, but his pupils seemed to finally focus upon his friend. As if he finally was starting to see again.

“I mean, I get it that you would try to please Enola. She _is_ lovely. But if this is how worked up you get, in a bad way may I add, then you should not allow it, Sherlock. Let alone take part in it! Why, you two are grown-ups with a child to think of! You should sit down together and talk about this and whether this is something that you want and could live with,” Watson suggested wisely, like a relationship-consultant pro. “If you can come to an arrangement you both feel at comfort with then this-“

“What on earth are you on about, Watson?” Sherlock croaked, his voice low and hoarse but loud enough to shut his partner up. It worked. The man shut his mouth and stared back at him.

“Isn’t that what you said happened?” Watson finally said after a short pause filled with contemplation on his behalf. “You said you caught her with another man and then stayed to watch?”

For a moment, Sherlock looked at him in silence. Then, the detective doubled over, pressing his arms into his midriff as he tried to control a bout of hysterical sounding laughter. All the tension seemed to leave him as tears formed in his eyes. “You- you thought that -? And I would-? No, Watson, oh no! Never!”

Watson just looked at him blankly, thinking that after today he must have seen it all. First the anger, now the laughter. _Was this still the real Sherlock?_ he wondered. But he allowed his friend the time to collect himself. Sherlock was still laughing, but after a full minute or so the laughter died down and his shoulders shook more gently, then stilled. His blue eyes were cast at the floor before they shyly turned upon the smaller man.

“I didn’t know where else to go to regain my senses. I’m afraid that I was temporarily blinded by rage and I didn’t know how to take it out,” here Sherlock paused, “or where.” It was his way of saying that he was sorry to impose himself upon his friend in such a manner.

“Not at home with the wife and kid, obviously,” Watson gladly provided, though he understood why. _How would Enola have responded seeing her husband like this?_ Watson wondered. _And with Sonance there, the whole situation might have erupted into chaos._ He gestured with his arm for Sherlock to take a seat on the small couch his dingy apartment had. Watson's home was all a very compact space; kitchen and living room all in one with only a bedroom adjacent. There was the wooden table Sherlock had stood over, two wooden chairs, a couch and a small coffee table. Books were scattered everywhere. Books and _specific magazines_. _He just hoped that Sherlock in his rage had not noticed them_.

 _Or the empty wine bottles he had stacked behind the bookcase just in case his friend would come by unannounced_. 

“Now would you care to sit down and explain it all to me, but gently this time. I might get the wildest impressions of you otherwise,” the doctor said honestly.

Sherlock did as his friend asked of him and together they sat on the same small couch, their knees touching as Watson turned to Sherlock. The doctor had a worried expression on his face, whilst Sherlock’s expression had become unreadable again.

“Now let’s start at the start, shall we?” Watson began, as if Sherlock was a little kid who needed to be tutored. “This is about your wife, am I right?”

Sherlock grunted but otherwise remained mute, and Watson was started to worry about his friend’s sanity – as if he hadn’t been doing so ever since the day he met the genius detective, but _hey!_ He wanted to tell him that he understood. He wanted to tell him that he appreciated it that Sherlock had come to him to talk about matters so close to his heart, _man to man._ But he wasn’t that well-spoken and certainly no craftsman with words. So instead, he awkwardly tapped his fingers together between his knees, tactfully keeping them away from Sherlock, while he carefully asked “so…. another man, eh?”

Sherlock’s expression fell, but the anger that had been there seemed to slip away and melt into sadness. He pinched his brow, his eyes upon the floor as if he suddenly had become too ashamed to look his friend in the eye. “I wasn’t there to save her,” he muttered, and Watson had to lean in slightly with his left ear towards his friends in an attempt to hear what he was saying.

“Come again?” Watson asked.

“I wasn’t there to save her!” Louder this time. Sherlock finally looked up at him again, teeth gritted and eyes hardened by something Watson could not describe as anything else but pain and raw regret.

“This didn't happen just now, did it?” He carefully asked, but Sherlock already frowned, which was answer in itself. Watson concluded that whatever had happened must have happened a long time ago. But somehow it only came to light now. He felt sorry for his friend, seeing him in this pain.

“No,” Sherlock's expression had become stoic again, but Watson could still sense the pain through his words. He could see it by the way Sherlock's jaw clenched ever so slightly, heard it by the low gravel of his voice. “But I found out today. I overheard Enola talking to mother. She told her all that she couldn’t tell me. Do you know how that feels, Watson? The pain of being denied trust?”

“No,” Watson swallowed drily. “I don’t know how that feels, Sherlock. I can only guess.” Carefully he patted his friend on the back while his thoughts threatened to slip back to his army days. He knew a lot of pain, knew how much trust and reliance meant in the army. _Was it the same as being betrayed by your lover?_ he wondered though. He concluded he never wanted to know the answer, if finding out meant he would have to live through the experience.

“I am sorry to hear this, Sherlock,” he said, wetting his lips as he carefully measured his next words. “Would you care to tell me what has happened? Or do you just want to sit here and have a nice cup of tea while you come back to your old self?”

“The tea I could do with,” Sherlock said, and Watson already rose to bring him a cup, expecting nothing more from the usually quiet and emotionless man. But the detective surprised him. “I just found out Enola has been _raped_ by a man during one of her cases. It was a while ago, before us,” here he paused and frowned as if he had said something weird, Watson thought as he observed his friend on the couch. “Before we got here. I knew something had happened to her. Her reoccurring nightmares were proof on its own of the horror she must have lived through.”

“But she never told you about it?”

“She shared a few things. But not much," Sherlock's eyes were distant, but otherwise he sat frozen. His elbows rested upon his knees. "She only ever said he had been a no one and that it didn’t matter because the sucker is dead.”

“She said sucker?”

Sherlock glared at him and he pressed his lips into a thin line. _Right, perhaps the fact that the man was dead should have been more shocking,_ Watson realised. “Sorry, go on, Sher.” And he did, ignoring the nickname Watson had constructed for him.

“It was the hitman after Tewkesbury.”

Watson’s eyes widened in surprise as he had heard about the viscount’s case. “But that was a big thing!” he said in wonder. “Him having gone missing as all over the newspapers, and then he popped up again and they caught the granny. But that was only last year or so! I didn’t know your wife was involved in that?”

“She was,” Sherlock groaned. “And I was too. But she beat me to it, got the answers quicker than me," there was the hint of a wistful smile upon his face, but other than that, nothing about his pose or expression changed. "Unfortunately, the answers weren’t everything she got.”  
  
Watson nearly forgot to get their tea. Instead, he remained frozen in the midst of his small chamber, looking back at his friend who sat staring ahead of him, eyes unseeing. The two of them basked in their silence, both drowning in their own thoughts about the matter. Watson tried to imagine anyone laying their hands on Enola. After what he'd seen, he could hardly believe anyone had managed to overpower her. She was quick and swift with her blows. She had stood her ground several times. To think of what Sherlock said had happened was painful even to him, and he was but a friend!   
  
"If I can get my hands on the bastard who nearly drowned her and then-," Sherlock started, but Watson was by his side instantly. He placed a warm hand on Sherlock's shoulder, abruptly forcing him out of the newly building rage.

“Sherlock, I don’t think I want to know," Watson carefully said. He could feel the tension in his friend's shoulder. 

But though Sherlock had quieted down, his breathing was still rapid and his while body tense. “I’m going to find out his name," he eventually said, after a pause that had Watson think that perhaps he had managed to calm the detective enough to finally go and get that tea. "And I am going to _kill_ him all over _again_.”

 _Okay, so he obviously had failed at that_. “Yeah, yeah, ransack his grave and what not. Is that what you’ve come to, Sherlock? Diving into the past to seek out the grave of a man who is already dead? To do what? Dig him up? What will it gain you?” Watson sighed before he gave Sherlock a little squeeze at the shoulder to comfort him before he let go of the other man. 

Finally Sherlock looked up at him and actually saw him. The passive gaze had been replaced by an alert one. He even narrowed his eyes as he replied. “The satisfaction of having had the pleasure to strangle the corpse myself,” he said. Watson almost thought his friend to sound smug.

“What good would that do, honestly, Sherlock?" he said with a groan. "How would it help your wife?”

 _Because,_ Watson thought, _Enola had never seen gloom when all the times he had met her_. They had pleasant talks, told each other jokes and riddles and whenever he felt down, she was the one who managed to cheer him up. She had never failed at that. He thought these must be qualities of her that Sherlock had fallen for, and he understood why. Enola was a good friend, he thought. _Good-hearted, good-humoured, good-spirited and good-looking_. He would never have guessed what had happened to her in her past by her cheerful and strong, courageous demeanour.  
  
“You’re right, Watson,” Sherlock said. And did Watson just hear a sigh escape his friend? “As always you’re right.”

Now that was a sentence he would love to hear more often! But in a different context, of course. Now was not the time to be joyful about the compliment of his wit. He wanted to hear these words during a case, not during a talk about someone dear to them both.

“I would think so,” Watson said with a careful smile. “If you go after this man, you’re not just digging up a corpse, you’re digging up _the past._ And Enola seems to be very good at forgetting what has been done to her. Why can’t you?”

Sherlock seemed to hang his head. Not fully, but it only took a slight movement and a whole shadow seemed to drop over his face, covering his features and hiding them from him. He brought his hands up to his face, rubbing his palms past his cheeks.

“I mean," Watson cocked his head, continuing in a softer voice now, "you still have her right? And there's Sonance, right? You have two people who love you, waiting for you at your home. What's there to be angry about when you have them, and the man who did this has got nothing?”

“Right,” Sherlock replied as he looked up at him like he had realised something. He had though. Sherlock had almost forgotten that Watson didn’t know about him and Enola being siblings. He still thought that Sherlock's son was _actually_ his son. He didn’t know the unidentified hitman was the true father.

Watson smiled kindly at him again and finally made it to his kitchen to put on the kettle. "Like I said, you have two lovely people in your life. Enola is a treasure. She's strong and sweet. I am sure that whatever has happened in the past, you two can work it out together. Lean on each other. Talk. Let the wounds heal by being each other's salve."

Sherlock behind him raised a brow, but decided not to comment on Watson's metaphorical language. Instead, he glimpsed at the clock and upon seeing the time of day, realised with a start that Enola must be worried that he hadn't come home yet. It was getting late, and the last thing he wanted was to upset her with being gone for too long without word. "She should know that I am here or else she might worry,” he said, sitting up straight and looking ready to bolt.

Watson turned around to face him, saw his friend's posture, and shook his head. “You're not going anywhere yet. I can send someone to bring word to her, shall I?” Watson was thinking of the messenger boys he knew in this district. He knew one who was very swift and Baker Street wasn’t _that_ far. “You just sit here and drink your tea, let those muscles of yours relax. You’re very tense. Enola could use a supportive husband, which means a man who can handle the situation and doesn’t look like he’s carrying the whole world upon his shoulders, all right?”

He saw how Sherlock’s shoulders visibly sagged. The tension finally seemed to ebb out of the room.

“Yes, Watson, please.”

Watson nodded and turned away when Sherlock’s voice wavered to him, “Oh, and Watson?”

He turned around to face him once more.

“Don't tell her I told you, _please_."

Watson had the odd niggling feeling that keeping this secret was going to be _impossibly_ hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, something is happening at Mycroft's office.


	14. How a painting made an impact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of unexpected man trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to say happy merry Christmas, but there’s a special Christmas chapter coming up so ho-ho-ho don’t hate me too much for what I’ve done in this chapter >)

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\--

14

\--

Rushing towards Watson’s house after she received word of Sherlock’s whereabouts, Enola was hardly paying attention to her surroundings. She knew that Sonance was safe in her mother’s arms, happy that she had managed to convince her to stay for dinner. Mrs Hudson was over the moon to hear Mrs Holmes was to eat with them and had offered to cook them something nice. So they’d be eating with all four of them – five if they counted Sonance but he’d be tasting rather than eating a full portion.

She drew the cream-coloured knitted shawl that matched her dress tighter around her shoulders. Her skirts rustled as she hastened through the crowded streets. Today had been such a whirlwind of emotions and actions. Firstly, seeing her mother again. After so many months! Secondly, sharing with her what had happened. Thirdly, Sherlock having stood outside of their apartment, listening in on them and storming off. And fourthly, well… Enola didn’t know if there really was a fourthly at all, but she thought the first three items of her list had been emotionally draining enough to ensure she’d be without emotions for the remainder of the year – if not more.

So lost in her thoughts she was that she nearly bumped into a man. She caught sight of his chest just in time to come to a halt without physically colliding. “Excuse me,” she started, sounding offended as she noticed the man hadn’t budged from his spot. As if he deliberately was blocking the road in front of her. She glared at the young man’s feet – well polished shoes that signalled wealth- and then finally let her eyes wander upwards to meet the familiar face of-

“Tewky?”

“Enola,” the young viscount’s handsome face was twisted in a foul expression, like he stood in a smelly room. _The streets of London didn’t smell like roses,_ Enola thought, so in a way his expression could be considered _neutral._ Yet she knew this wasn’t the case and she was probably right in taking his expression as a personal offence. He wasn’t stepping aside either but kept blocking the road in front of her, like this was his goal. _It probably was_ , Enola realised with a shock. He was deliberately forcing her to acknowledge him so she had to talk to him.

“It’s so hard to catch your attention. Didn’t you hear me yell your name?”

 _Yell even?_ Enola had to admit to her shame that she hadn’t noticed it if he had. “I’m sorry, Tewky, my mind was elsewhere.”

“Obviously,” he fumed, “if it hadn’t been, you would have noticed my _desperate_ attempts to get your attention.”

“Now that you have it, what will you do with it?” she asked him.

“Ask you a question. Like, why did you not say ‘hi,’ or ‘nice to see you’ or ask me a ‘how have you been?’ Instead, you’re pretending not to notice me. It’s almost as if you deliberately look the other way.”

She wanted to step past him, she truly did. But doing so would seem incredibly rude. There were people all around them. It would be easy for her to make a scene, but likewise, the same could be said for him. He was a celebrity here, after all. And she was only recently becoming somewhat of a news item.

“Have I?” she instead asked in turn, but at the same time she knew that she truly hadn’t noticed him until now. Though she would still have looked the other way if she had noticed him.

The young viscount let out a sigh and ran his hand through his long hair. It had grown again, Enola noticed. Last time she’d seen him it had still been short. Ever after she cut his hair to function as a disguise, he had claimed to prefer it that way. And she? She had only laughed and shaken her head like it was a silly thing to say. _Whatever had him grow out his hair again?_ she wondered. Not that it didn’t suit him – he looked really well with his hair like this. But then again, if the things that had happened to her hadn’t happened, she would probably have had a crush on him. Perhaps she would even have tried to cultivate that crush into something more. Yet if she hadn’t met him, she would have never ended where she was now. It was like he was part of this paradoxical circle. One thing could not come without the other, she concluded silently. So there was no use in thinking of what could have been. She already had her answer.

She hardly realised he was speaking to her until she heard him say her name. Then she looked up into his dark pleading eyes. “Have you been ignoring me the past few months, Enola? Have you been deliberately dodging me?”

 _Oh, she definitely had!_ “Whatever gave you that idea?” The alarms were ringing in her already too occupied mind. Her mother had talked to him so he must know, she reminded herself. But really, she felt like she had no time for him right now. Not for this.

“The fact that you suddenly left your lodgings and were nowhere to be found,” Tewkesbury continued, his expression fixed firmly upon her. She could see the seriousness in his eyes. A mixture of concern and of anger, but also hurt. “That no one you talked to seemed to know where you were, what case you were working on or why you had gone?”

She had an answer to that. But she rather not go there. “I’ve been busy,” she said instead, trying to make herself tall. Her cream-coloured dress rustled at the motion and a strand of her long brown hair fell over her left shoulder.

“Busy screwing another man?”

 _Ouch_. Had Tewkesbury noticed the way she had painfully flinched at that comment? But the damage had been done. His comment had been rude, despicable to her ears, even if she knew that it had been spoken out of ignorance with an underlying layer of hurt, jealousy and misunderstanding. Because whatever did he know about her situation these past months? Whatever did he know about her feelings?

She pushed him with both of her hands, effectively making him take a step back, before she angrily passed him. “How dare you!” she fumed. Her heels clicked upon the cobblestones of the street, the sound that of a determined tread that suddenly came to a halt when Tewkesbury grabbed her by the elbow and halted her movements. She spun around to face him, her eyes alight with fury.

“Let me go,” she demanded, loud enough for the people nearest to them to hear. Already some onlookers came to a halt to watch the scene in front of them unfold.

Tewkesbury seemed to notice too, for he quietened down and cocked his head slightly at her, giving her one of those ‘I hope you understand me’ looks. “Enola,” his voice was as stern as she had ever heard him. “Please.” Though she did not know what he was begging her for. _Probably that she wouldn’t cause a fuss,_ she thought, and angrily bit the inside of her cheek to keep from doing just that.

She tried to relax in his grip somewhat, lowering the arm he had grabbed onto. But her eyes still bore angrily into his. And was that shame she saw appear in his eyes? _Hah! Suits him well,_ she thought with a feeling of starting glee. All of a sudden he seemed so young in her eyes. _Like a duckling who only just came looking in this pond full of grown ducks._ He had so much to learn about life, having been shielded from all the nastiness for most of it. It was a luxury only someone of his disposition could have.

“Enola,” his voice hard grown softer and so had his grip on her. Still, he didn’t let go. But at least she didn’t try to jerk her arm free any longer and any onlookers seemed to have grown bored because the people around them seemed to have started moving again.

“I’m not in the mood to be insulted,” Enola bit back sharply. “Especially not by you.”

She saw a little muscle in Tewkesbury’s cheek twitch and knew she had hit a nerve. Enola didn’t have many friends, but she had always counted him as one. Right now she hoped he knew this, knew how much he meant to her.

“I heard you have a child.” _Oh God,_ Enola thought. _Why does he have to sulk when he says this?_ Because in front of her, Tewkesbury was pouting. She almost felt sorry for him with the way he looked at her. This wasn’t fair at all.

Finally his hand had slipped from her arm and she watched as his shoulders sagged. With a sigh she decided to humour him. “My mother told you that,” she said. It was a statement, not a question. But Tewkesbury didn’t seem to catch it like that.

“That was your mother?” He sounded surprised and Enola wondered what the heck her mother had said to him when she had questioned him. Had she done so undercover? Had she now blown it? She stored the questions away for another time. Her mother would answer them for her, when she felt like it.

“Yes, Tewky, I have a _son_ ,” Enola quickly said, trying to make him forget that she had just mentioned her own mother. She saw his expression fall, as if he had held hope that the thing he had heard had been a lie. Something inside of her chest hurt at the sight of it, to see that she had disappointed him.

_If only he knew it hadn't been her choice. She would never have hurt him like this._

“I see,” Tewkesbury said instead, pensively. “I see.” Then his eyes turned back fully upon her and his lips pressed into a thin line. “More words came to my ears,” he started, and Enola wondered what else he had heard. “About the place you’re staying and the company you keep.”

She had to think about what he meant for a second, but quite swiftly replied. “You know I live with my brother,” because that was the conclusion she made hearing his comment. It had been in the newspapers after all, especially after her involvement in the Barnes Mystery. _Mrs Holmes. Not her mother. But she. Her. Enola. Now how could that be?_ She thought ironically.

“Who pretends to be married to you! How is that normal?” _Yep, he knew._ She had told him. She had told him way too much when they had been friends and before Sherlock took her in. He was one of the few people who could give their scheme away. She wondered if he would do it though. And that wonder caused the look of panic upon her face. A look which was misinterpreted by Tewkesbury who took a step back and reached for his own heart.

“Dear God,” he muttered, then louder again as he gasped for air. “Oh dear God, it _is_ true.” Enola raised a brow at this, wondering whatever was going on in the young viscount’s mind. Was he thinking that their marriage was more than pretence?

Enola glanced over her shoulder. She could see Watson’s apartment from where they were standing. Had she been this close all along? But how to get rid of the viscount?

“Tewky,” she started, but the young lad shook his head, his hair dangling in front of him, some sticking to his lips.

“I had hoped- no, no.” But apparently there was no reasoning with him now, she concluded as she heard him mumble to himself. _What exactly was it that he had hoped for?_ she wondered. But she didn’t get much time to think on it, for he had turned to her again.

“Tell me, who is the father?” he asked, eyes wide as he took a step closer to her again. “Tell me it is not- not. _Oh, bugger it all_! Why did you do this?”

“Do what, Tewky?” She knew she sounded harsh, her words snide, but she could not help it. He was starting to work on her nerves, which were already wrecked after the tumultuous day. “Have a life?”

“Have a child?” He retorted. “And why?”

Enola rolled her eyes and turned away from him. She’d thought about the biological father of Sonance too many times already today and she felt drained. “Ask me another time,” she whispered, too tired to even speak as she stepped away from him, deliberately leaving him standing there. But he did not take his defeat. Instead, he followed after her.

“Enola, wait!” he called out, but Enola stepped onwards. Her eyes focused upon her goal: Watson’s home. _Nearly there,_ she thought.

“What does he have that I haven’t got to offer?” _Could his words be more insulting? More hurting?_ She turned to look at him from over her shoulder, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown. _Could he see the hurt in her eyes?_ she wondered. She hoped he could. She hoped he would drown in them as she had nearly drowned when Sonance was conceived.

“Oh no,” she glowered angrily at the young viscount who stood only an arm’s length behind her. “We’re not having this conversation _. Goodbye_ Tewky,” she wanted to turn away again but Tewkesbury was faster. He reached out a hand for her, his eyes pleading again.

“Enola, please, you can’t leave me hanging,” his hand was once again upon her arm, this time her upper arm had to suffer the warmth of his palm. In any other time she would have enjoyed his touch. His hands could have comforted her even. But here and now? She was too tired. And she just wanted him to be her friend, nothing more. And he didn’t understand! Never had the chance to, never had the right story told to him. But she was too tired to do so now. She might, one day. “Enola?”

“That’s enough, good sir,” the low familiar baritone of her brother sounded out of nowhere. “The lady said to leave her be.”

Sherlock came up from behind her. His eyes never left Tewkesbury though. His gaze was so intense that the young viscount, feeling intimidated by it, quickly let Enola go. She wasted no time and stepped closer to her older brother, nearly cuddling up and into his side. Still he did not budge. He continued to stare down the viscount who seemed to grow smaller and smaller.

Then, with a sudden and sharp movement, Sherlock turned on his heels. His arm locked around Enola’s waist as he did so. A whisper in her ear signalled ‘let’s go’ and she followed his lead as he led her away from Tewkesbury and towards Watson’s home.

To know that the Viscount of Tewkesbury was watching them through narrowed eyes, possibly having concluded that Enola had slept with her own brother…… _Well,_ Enola thought bitterly. _That’ll be a worry for another day._

\--

A new assignment brought him back to a place he hadn’t been for over a year. He had actually missed the damn place, but the fact they had let him go this easily bothered him.  
  
The woman who lead him into the room was tall and slender. _Good legs,_ he noticed. _And nice hips_. She was a beauty. Anyone with eyes could see that. Yet, there hadn’t been a woman who could capture his attention and stir those _particular_ emotions within him ever since he had met _her_. Even now, watching the attractive young woman did nothing to him. Even if she walked with her hips swaying and deliberately bent forward suggestively, showing off her curves.

But he smiled politely at her as he followed her into a boardroom where one large oval table filled the room. On the chairs to either side men were seated. _Older gentlemen_ , he noticed. _Older and rich_. The notion instantly filled him with disdain, but he made sure not to let it show.

One of the men rose from his seat. He was one of the younger ones, although his moustache seemed to add on a few years physically rather than subtract them. The man cleared his voice. “Continue on without me,” he said, then stepped away from the table, leaving behind the men around him mumbling and muttering to each other in confidential voices. Though whatever had been discussed here had long since been paused, ever since he had entered the room.

The moustache-man approached the newcomer and acknowledged his presence with a curt nod of his head. He signalled to the woman, his assistant, that he would take it from here.

“Let’s take this somewhere more private, shall we?” he said. “Follow me.”

The two men made their way out of the boardroom and through a long tiled hallway, until they finally reached a heavy wooden door which had to be unlocked. Working for many departments, this was one he hadn’t been to in well over a year. And quite frankly, it was a room he had thought he would never see again. Not after all that had happened. He followed the other man in, but kept his distance.

“Here we can talk more openly,” the other man said as he sat down behind the desk. “I expect the same discretion from you as always. Then again, you have never let us down before.”

“Perhaps just once,” he said, licking his lips as he studied his employer. _Sleek,_ he thought, knowing the man's words were said out of social etiquette and void of meaning. _Still as pompous as ever._

“What happened was bad luck," the man continued. "It’s a surprise you got out well enough to work again.” _Was it? That was an understatement. By the doctor’s judgement, he should have been dead._

So as an answer to this, he just hummed and said nothing in reply. Why should he? He was a man of little words and knew how to navigate in the dangerous field he was working in.

“It is good to see you in good health, albeit it being with some alterations” the other man said, gesturing for him to take the seat in front of the desk. “I expect the usual discretion.”

As he sat down he noticed not much had changed over time. There was the desk in front of him, still pristine, with a few papers tactfully stacked but nothing of value lingering about that could give away – well… _anything_. He knew the drawers were locked, all except for one- which had been done on purpose and contained false information, hidden there as a test to see what kind of 'guests' the man was receiving. New employees, possible spies, that sort of thing.

The carpet was still green, the heavy velvet curtains matched them but had a streak of yellowish-gold at the hems. There was the cabinet with oddities on full display – glass vials, old telescopes and little inventive knick-knacks. His eyes slid past the wooden globe – hollow inside, which was where his employer kept his finest bottle of whiskey and crystal wine glasses. The wooden floorboards underneath the carpet seemed to have been recently polished. The wooden closet behind the desk contained all sorts of maps, he knew that as well, and seemed unchanged except for a few more scratches on the top surface. There was a little bowl with coins on it, another test.

But as he looked up at the wall behind the desk, a large painting that could not be overlooked caught his eye. _Pain shot through his core upon the sight._ Lovely. Wonderous. Angelic. _Her._

“Ah, _Linthorn_. You were always one of our best men. Such a shame you got struck down. It’s good to see you work for our TW unit three now. Captain Harkness got you back into the job. And as a private detective nonetheless.”

It took him a beat longer to reply, as he had to tear his eyes away from the canvas – with little success. But Linthorn managed a reply, even though his mouth had turned dry. “We’re not here for pleasantries, Mycroft,” he said. “Just tell me what I need to know for the assignment to be carried out successfully.” The pull was too strong and his eyes drifted back to the painting that hung behind Mycroft on the wall.

There, upon the canvas was the woman who had never left his mind. The woman he had been searching for ever since he had recovered enough to do so. He instantly recognised her. The fine features of her face, the brown eyes, the long wild hair, her supple forms accentuated and not very well hidden by a red dress that seemed eerily familiar to the one he had seen her in before.

She looked lovely and seemed unchanged from when he had last seen her. Her pose was one of combat, which sent a pleasant tingle down his spine. He remembered how it had felt to be hit by her. A spark of arousal shot through his core. Her soft, warm hand upon his cheek. Her leg against his waist. Sure, they had been successful combat moves, but her mere touch had set him alight with all these indescribable feelings. On this painting here, she looked like a warrior goddess, and whoever had drawn her must be a talented muse sent here by the Gods because she looked so _vivid_. He could swear he would feel her soft skin if he were to touch the canvas.

But what truly made his heart stop was when his eyes slid down her shape to come to rest upon the infant upon her arm. A child. _She had a child?_

He forgot to breathe.

“What’s the matter?” the man in front of him asked, having noticed the sharp intake of breath and the odd stillness that had followed. He glimpsed over his own shoulder, following his gaze. “Isn’t it a pretty picture,” Mycroft said proudly. “ _Enola_. Drawn by John Everett Millais.”

 _Enola_? Linthorn assumed that was her name and not just a random title to the work. It had to be hers, because just like her, the name was a curious one. A fitting one. _Alone,_ he mentally added as his mind quickly turned the word the other way around. _Was she?_ he wondered. _Was she as alone as he had been?_

A tingle of joy started to fill him. He now had a lead. _Finally_ he knew her name, carving it deep into his mind, memorising it so he would never forget. It’d been almost two years since he had seen her. Almost two years since he had felt her skin beneath his hands. Time had flown, but he had spent every waking hour looking for her.

Yet, Linthorn knew he was treading on dangerous ground. Just asking Mycroft about her would set off alarm bells and put his life at risk. No matter how badly he wanted to know more about her, fact was the painting hung in Mycroft’s office and he didn’t know what would happen if his employer found out about his interest in her. He didn’t know their connection, after all. Was she his lover? His wife? A friend? Just a model he had never met but whose painted likeness he enjoyed well enough to have bought from the painter? He could not risk exposing his feelings, and so he cocked his head, wetted his lips and cleared his throat – _casually._

“The task?” he asked, pretending to only be interested in doing his profession.

“Ah, right,” Mycroft tore his eyes away from the painting and shook his head before he rifled through some papers on his desk. _Enola._ Her name sounded inside of Linthorn's mind with every rustle of the paper. He watched Mycroft in silence and tried very hard not to look up at her again, but _oh_ \- how he _wanted_ to!

Slouching a little in the wooden uncomfortable chair, he focused his gaze upon Mycroft’s hands. _Had they ever lain upon her skin?_ he wondered. He would not allow his thoughts to slide to the child in the painting. _Could it be his?_  
  
“Professional as always,” Mycroft commented. “I’m glad _that much_ of your personality remained after the fall.”

Linthorn didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or as an insult. “I only wish to do my job,” he said with half a smile.

Mycroft let out a short laugh. “Ah, yes, the money,” he said as he separated several papers from the stack. “Everything is in here. You’ll be earning a handsome reward for your department. If you succeed, Harkness will be over the moon and it’ll get you a nice bonus.”

Linthorn ran the fingers of his left hand past his lips and hummed as if he truly was interested in the reward. He usually was, but his standard excitement was glossed over by something far more important. _The money be damned._ The only bonus he needed was _her_. As he rubbed his fingers past his lips he remembered chasing her, touching her, craving her. He had worn a leather glove back then, when he had been chasing her. He _remembered_. A glove to the left, a cane to the right and a knife in his coat’s pocket.

And later on, a gun to his hip. Perhaps his biggest mistake.

Mycroft studied the file in his hand. “I do like the new _nickname_ they gave you. It has a certain ring to it.” When Linthorn didn’t reply, he continued. “Anyway, I have a job for you. I trust you will be able to bring this assignment to a success?”

He handed a stack of papers to Linthorn who stood up from his chair. He took them without glancing at them, his gaze still upon Mycroft’s face, and then forced a smile. “You can count on it,” his eyes then roved over the painting one last time, before he turned on his heels and adjusted his bowler hat. As swiftly as he could, he exited the office. The assignment in his hand nearly forgotten.

 _Enola_ , he thought. _I’ll find you. And you’ll be alone no more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Sherlock and Enola arrive home.
> 
> Teaser:  
> 
> 
> AN: Quick reminder that I am on [Instagram now (jokeringcutio) ](https://www.instagram.com/jokeringcutio/) where I am uploading progress and fic related stuff. So if you're on there, don't be shy to follow me. I return follows (unless you ask me not to). <3  
> Ps. The special Christmas Chapter I had planned to be chapter 15, is now going to be chapter 16. Because on popular demand, I have added a conversation between Enola and Sherlock in between. So that is coming up next ;D


	15. How they resolved the tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Enola talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came out as an accident. Therefore, the Christmas chapter I had planned to be 15, is now 16 :) Whoopsie.

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

\--

15

\--

“It’ll be Christmas then,” Enola muttered as she halted in front of the door of Baker Street 221B. The rain had started pelting down upon them during the last few steps. “Mycroft is coming?”

The news puzzled her, and she looked up at her brother with big curious eyes. The moment he had opened their door and she was inside, she shook her wet hair and asked, “Whatever for?”

Sherlock huffed and shrugged – a motion hardly visible even if it hadn’t been dark in the hallway. She followed him up the stairs to their apartment door.

“Can’t we close the door on him?” she asked, though it was more likely a honest meant suggestion. The thought of Mycroft visiting them on Christmas day seemed less than tempting. If she had to be honest, it could almost be said to ruin the Christmas spirit.

“Enola, he _is_ our brother.”

“A bother more like,” Enola huffed. She followed Sherlock on his heels and waited for him to unlock their door. She didn’t want to tell him that she had hoped their first Christmas with Sonance to be a quiet and peaceful one. Especially after the last one had been celebrated on her own – _apart from the unborn Sonance who had still been in her belly at that time_. Still, the promise of a roof above her head, a comfortable home with a nice warm hearth and the company of both her son and her favourite brother seemed like a biblical promise of paradise. She didn’t need Mycroft ruining that.

When they were in the hallway of their apartment, faintly lit by the light of an oil lamp, Enola let the shawl drop from her shoulders before she hung it on the nearest coat hook. It was a relief to see her mother’s cloak hanging next to it, which meant she was still here.

She slipped her hands behind her hair, drawing the loose strands over her shoulders to cascade down her chest and caught her older brother looking at the motion. His light-coloured eyes flitted up to her face, as if he knew she was watching him in turn.  
  
“Will we talk about this?” she started as she watched him place his walking cane against the wall. “We must,” she added wistfully, knowing that the burden she felt weighing her heart down must be weighing his down too. “Or do you wish to wait till mother is gone?”

They could hear the cooing sounds coming from the kitchen. Eudoria was no doubt waiting for them to return, and while doing so, she was occupying their son with nursery rhymes and silly little word games – by the sound of it.

She studied Sherlock’s face, having become experienced in reading even the slightest chances. She could tell he was conflicted, but tried not to let it show. Sherlock’s eyes were upon his hand as he reached for his pocket watch. But he didn’t look at it, merely put it away in his breast pocket.

“We can talk,” he said after what seemed like an eternity of silence, then fell silent again as he allowed his eyes to come to rest upon his sister, “now.” Enola sighed in relief. She wanted to have this over and done with. Although talking at the entrance of their living room certainly wasn’t the best place. But if their mother heard them, so be it. She already knew about it all.

“Listen,” Enola started, “I’m sorry,”

“Forget about it,” Enola looked at Sherlock in surprise. They had spoken simultaneously but his low baritone voice had overpowered hers.

She frowned in confusion and clasped her hands in front of her. “What?” She started, not quite sure how to find the words to express the jumble of thoughts in her mind. “Why?”

But something in her brother’s gaze had darkened as he stepped closer to her. She felt his soft, warm hands upon her arms before she looked up to see him looking down at her. He was trying to comfort her, she could tell by the way he forced a small smile. Yet it was hardly visible, because it took him more effort than usual.

“Enola, what happened to you has been more awful than I could have imagined,” she felt his hands slide slowly down her arms, then rub upwards again. It was a smooth and soothing gesture that she could not deny made her feel at ease. _Loved._ “And I have imagined a lot,” he continued. She could hear the hurt in his voice and tried not to let her mind wander to any possible scenarios her brilliantly-minded brother could have come up with. “But to be angry in your presence while you bear your past with such bravery, such dignity, that would be wrong. I don’t want to be the one reminding you of it.”

“Sonance is a permanent reminder,” Enola said. “And even _he_ can’t make me upset any longer.”

“Enola,” Sherlock’s eyes seemed to darken, but she could not quite read what emotion lay within them.

“I admit,” she continued, ignoring him on purpose, “that I was scared at the start of it all. I was scared of how it could be once he was born. Would I see _him_? Would the baby be a reflection of the man who haunts my dreams. But then I thought, _no._ He already has taken so much of me. He won’t have this. He won’t have Sonance. _Ever._ He can’t have what he _does not_ deserve.”

“He didn’t deserve you either and he still had you,” the words were a low rumble, but Enola had heard them either way.

“Sherlock,” Enola shook her head. “You’re doing it again. Blaming yourself. You had no hand in this, no influence whatsoever to have stopped it.”

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line, a clear signal that he found her words hard to accept but for her sake tried to keep himself from staring an argument about it. She appreciated it, truly. But she sighed nonetheless.

“See? We need to talk about this. This upsets you as much as it does me. More so even…”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head and Enola stared at him, having once again been cut short by his determined voice. “I am perfectly fine, _now_. ”

Enola found herself huffing. _Did he still think her to be a child?_ She had managed to bear her past perfectly fine up until now. And if he hadn’t found out then she still would.

“You’re scared that talking about it will dig it all up?” She said, dropping her arms by her side before placing her hands on her hips. She regretted the feel of his warm palms slip away, but she relished in the little bit of distance that she had created. She didn’t need her brother to dote on her out of pity. She wanted to feel strong, not belittled. “You’re scared to remind me of it all? It’s been well over a year ago, Sherlock. I fought him off, I continued with my life, I have never mentioned him or what he has done because it was not necessary.”

 _Was she red in the face?_ She felt like she was. It took a lot of her to keep quiet enough as not to alert their mother. She did not want Eudoria to step in and break their conversation before it had even fully started.

Sherlock cocked his head and narrowed his eyes as he watched her. _What was he looking for?_ she wondered. But she bit her tongue to keep from asking him. She wanted to stand her ground, to make it perfectly clear to him that she could handle the entire situation – always had been.

“And likewise it is not necessary to talk about it now,” he said, surprising her with his logic. He was trying to avoid talking about the subject altogether, she knew. But she would not let him. Hearing her truth had bothered him enough to make a run for it. What if it happened again? What if he ran away from her because of- well, to be honest she did not know why or what of. But the fear that he would turn away from her was still there.

“You _ran,_ Sherlock,” now her voice had been raised and she quickly lowered it back to a whisper, eyeing the threshold towards the kitchen suspiciously. But luckily, their mum could still be heard making sweet conversation with their baby, and did not appear to come and see what Enola and Sherlock were on about.

“I know it is because I never told you all of it," Enola started. "For you to overhear it like so-“

“Was a mistake,” Sherlock interjected and it sounded like an accusation.

“No,” Enola gasped, thinking that was not what she was going to say at all. And again, “no.”

“Yes, Enola,” Sherlock leaned closer again, towering over her and covering her in his shadow. “You never wanted me to know. What I heard was not meant for my ears.”

That she could not deny and so she frowned at his chest, unable and not wanting to look him in the eye.

“You would not tell me but you would tell our mother,” Sherlock groused, as if it had been a capital offense she had committed.

Enola’s frown deepened and her voice hardened to match his. “She _is_ our _mother_ ,” she finally looked up at him again. “She found out and asked about it.”

“I found out and asked you about it too,” Sherlock’s eyes locked with hers, seeing the fright in them at the way his voice had been raised as he approached her. Had he shouted in her face?

Enola looked into her brother’s eyes, both wide and wild. She had seldom seen them like this, like whirlwinds of all sorts of bad emotions. And _she_ had caused them.

“I’m sorry” she whispered, not because of the way things had gone but because of the emotions she saw she had stirred within him. She clutched her hands to her chest. “I’m sorry but it _is_ different.” She looked away again, this time at her own folded hands. “She found out about who he was….”

Sherlock fell silent and Enola noticed that he had taken a step back. His shadow no longer fell over her, and when she looked up she saw something akin to pity in his eyes.

“She doesn’t know who he was exactly, does she?” Enola blinked at Sherlock’s question. He cleared his throat, apparently taking her blinking as confusion, and then clarified his own words. ”She doesn’t know his name. It was blackened, I heard.”

 _So he had heard that part of the conversation too,_ Enola wondered. _What else? All of it then?_

She stood there, uncertain what to do or how to respond. Her right hand clutched her left, feeling at her own wrist as uncertainty overtook her.

“Listen, I,” Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, seemingly just as uncomfortable and hesitating as she was. _They looked alike a lot more than Enola ever would have guessed_ , she thought ironically. It was just the eyes that were different. The eyes, the hair, the height, _the gender_ , she thought. He seemed to have hit the jackpot. If only she would have been a man like him, then all would have gone so wonderfully different, she thought.

“Why did you run?” She suddenly asked, interrupting whatever his train of thought had led him to. “Promise me not to run again? I am afraid of little, brother, but you turning your back on me might just be my greatest fear.”

Sherlock fell silent. He watched her, their eyes meeting in the shimmering of the light of the oil lamps that lit the hallway. It was dark early outside. The cold wind biting their skin more with each passing day. She felt the cold inside of their apartment now. Felt it not because it was truly there, but because of the silence that prolonged between them.

“Sherlock?” she asked.

As if her saying his name was magical, it prompted him to step forward again. But this time it was to wrap his arms around her, instantly chasing away the cold from her bones and replacing it with something warm that only love could bring.

“I promise, _Enola_ ,” it was a whisper, but he had bent his head forward to whisper it in her ear. She felt the tingling of his breath against the shell of her ear, tickling her skin.

His arms tightened around her.

Enola basked in his scent. With her eyes closed, she could imagine them being like this forever. Her, in his arms. Him, breathing gently against her skin. His warmth all around her, his strong muscles against her and keeping her safe. _She never wanted to be anywhere else again._

Apparently he must have thought the same, for he remained in this very same position, breathing deep breaths. She felt his heartbeat against her own. How he must stand crooked to hold her like this with her being so much smaller than his tall height! _But oh-_ how she loved the fact that he would twist and turn himself in such ways to be close to her. 

“I swear, Sherlock, if you ever turn your back on me again and run instead of talk-“ She didn’t finish her sentence but merely smiled when she felt by the trembling of his body that Sherlock was chuckling.

When he finally withdrew – but his hands remained on her waist! _Nice_! – and locked eyes with her again, she could still see the hint of a smile on his lips. “Your threats sound hollow, Mrs Holmes,” he teased her. She responded by sticking out her tongue.

“You should not be scared within my presence,” Enola then said, trying to glare up at him – but failing because he could easily tell she wasn’t truly mad at him any longer. “After all, I would never use my Jiu Jitsu skills on my own husband,” she jested.

“Is that true?” But as Sherlock asked it, she could see the approval of her using the word husband in his eyes. _He fancied it when she called him like so?_ She made a mental note to do it more often and see if her theory was correct.

“We both know that if we got in a row, I would win,” she cockily said.

Sherlock seemed to smirk at this. “Only because I would let you.”

“Oh!” She wanted to slap him, but despite the fact that he had been holding her by the waist with both hands, he managed to be quicker and catch her wrist before she could actually hit his chest. She gasped when he caught her hand.

“Told you,” he said, a twinkle of joy in his eyes.  
  
“Oh you!” Enola bristled, but lowered her hand when he let go of her. She had to suffer listening to Sherlock’s laugh.

“Ah, there you are,” their mother appeared in the threshold with Sonance in her arms. Their boy seemed happy, smiling and reaching for his grandmother’s hair with his tiny hands. He was making joyful sounds and Enola thought she could distinguish the word ‘suffragettes’ – _or at least something along the lines._ She had to suppress a smile knowing that her mother had been talking politics to her nearly one-year old child. “I suspect Mrs Hudson will almost have finished dinner by the smell of the fumes.”

Enola flashed her mother a smile before she greeted her own son by stroking a finger past his cheek and cooing a ‘hello love’ that earned her a bright smile and an excited giggle.

_And it indeed smelled lovely._

Enola took a deep breath and recognised all sorts of dishes. Broccoli, potatoes. Sherlock had closed his eyes and imitated her by taking a deep breath as well, taking in the scents that came from downstairs apartment. “Tartare,” he said, then went past his mother and into the room.

“He needs to change first,” Enola apologised.

Eudoria responded by shaking her head and smirking. “And you too,” she said, nodding her head in Enola’s direction. Enola looked down and saw what her mother meant. Her cream-coloured dress was smudged. Mud had splashed up against her skirts, probably by passing carriages, and dirt stuck to the hem of her dress. The rain that had started to fall when they had made their way home had created wet, almost see-through, spots she noticed as she looked down at herself. Perhaps changing into a cleaner dress would be more decent to their landlady and host for the night.

When she looked up again she smiled apologetically. The thought of having to clean and wring this dress dry was one more painful than anything that had happened to her in the past. _How she hated washing days!_

“Did you get a chance to talk?” Eudoria asked carefully. Enola could tell by her mother’s expression that she was being discreet. _Had they talked about what had happened today?_

“We did, mum,” Enola said, pressing her forehead tightly against her mother’s. Eudoria laughed softly as Enola let her go. “Thank you for staying tonight. I would have loved it if you could have come for Christmas but-"

“I can’t,” Eudoria said, sounding slightly ashamed of herself. “But if all goes well I’ll be celebrating next year’s Christmas with you and your men. As a family.”

“I’d love that,” Enola said, a spark in her eyes at the thought of all of them together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, It's Christmas time!


	16. How a Christmas gift was given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me use this moment to wish you all a very merry Christmas. Or if you celebrate something different, that it may be merry as well! I wish you all lovely holidays and all the best in the new year. Let us hope that all the misery of 2020 will be in the past soon and will be replaced with love, hope, friendships, warmth, comfort and laughter. All the positive stuff that we might have had to miss this past year <3 This story isn't done yet, though I am currently replanning new chapters. There'll be more. But the speed with which I update might change. Bookmark to keep track of this fic, or follow me on Instagram for updates and what not ;D

[ ](https://ibb.co/Zf7Hmvt)

\--

16

\--

_~ Before ~_

Mycroft watched his trusted ex-hitman leave the office, but a nagging feeling remained. As he stacked the papers that had been left behind, he tried to figure out what it was that was bothering him. _It was something_ …. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Linthorn had never been a sentimental man in all of his time working for Mycroft’s department. But it was in the casual way the man had shown interest in the painting - and the look that had changed in the man’s eyes. As if he had seen a ghost.

 _Perhaps he had_ , Mycroft concluded, Linthorn had seen his sister, after all.

He thought back of the many assignments the man had been given. He had been excellent, one of their best. It had been a shame to have let him go.

But what choice did they have after the man sustained an almost lethal injury and was left afflicted by it? That Linthorn had survived had been a miracle. Yet Mycroft heavily doubted he was as good at fulfilling his job as he had been before he had been struck down. He would not have had him on the task if he hadn't been in desperate need of a man with experience, and all good ones were already assigned. Then his friend, the Captain of the TW unit 3, had carefully suggested he give his old employee a chance while he got back on the job. Linthorn had been out of it a bit over a year and he needed to prove himself as still capable to do the job. This task wasn’t the simplest, but it was an effective test. Mycroft got someone to do the mission for him, Harkness got the prove his new man was effective at his job. A win-win to both teams. And a win to Linthorn who could prove himself to still be capable enough to get back in the field.

Mycroft pushed the neatly piled stack of papers to one side of the desk as his mind drifted to the upcoming Christmas. He would celebrate it at his home again, alone, like always. He didn’t feel like seeking out his siblings. Not now that he knew that Sherlock was – _well…._ Let’s just say Mycroft was heavily disappointed in his younger brother.

No, he would celebrate this year on his own again. Perhaps he could ask Anthea to buy him a Christmas gift so that he would not know what he’d be getting this year.

He turned around to glance at the cabinet behind him before his eyes darted up to the painting. _His younger sister was quite the sight_. It must have rattled Linthorn to see her again.

The woman who had struck him down.

Mycroft allowed his fingers to wander the surface of his desk while he hummed thoughtfully. _Enola had been the ghost,_ he knew. Because Linthorn had been on the same case she’d been chasing as her debut one. According to the reports, Enola had been the one to solve the mystery and the one to rescue Tewkesbury. She’d also been at Lestrade’s to report as a witness. And although everyone involved at the final scene in Basilwether Hall had claimed that the viscount had been the one to strike down Linthron, Mycroft knew that it had in fact been his sister who had given Linthorn the nearly-fatal blow. A fact that had impressed him beyond words.

He knew this to be the truth, because Linthorn had admitted the blow to have been delivered by a young woman of her description. That was, once he had recovered enough to speak properly again.

And also, Mycroft knew that his sister was good at Jiu Jitsu. Sherlock might not have wanted to share this titbit of information with him, but he had his sources.

The painting only acted as prove.

Perhaps he should have had the artwork covered, but Mycroft had left it out in the open on purpose. He had wanted to see the man’s reaction, or lack of it. Of course the former hitman had reacted the way he had. Mycroft had unwittingly confronted the man with a sight that could have been his final one. Looking at the painted Enola, her leg up in the air in a kick, her skirts swirling around her, he realised that his sister in an attack pose must be a painful reminder to someone who had been struck down by her and nearly lost his life.

The thought made the corner of his mouth twitch. _By God,_ he was proud of her. That she could instil this sense of fear in a man! _Brilliant!_

He was about to turn away, back to his desk again, when his eyes paused upon Sonance. His nephew was looking back at him with twinkling brown eyes. Dark ones, like Enola’s. _Thank the Lord he didn’t have Sherlock’s blue eyes,_ Mycroft thought. It was such an atrocity already that his own brother had slept with their sister and managed to get away with it till this very day. Whatever would their mother and their late father say if they would know? If Mycroft could find a way to rescue his sister from Sherlock’s hands, he would. But what would happen to his nephew if he tore them apart now? His eyes rested upon Sonance as he thought about this.

It was impressive that she had fought with his nephew on her arm. Linthorn had seen the sight of her, fighting, in real life. But he had never seen her with the child on her arm as she punched or kicked him – _or whatever move she had done to knock the man out_. Linthorn had never seen the child, because Sonance had not been born yet.

 _Because Sonance had not been born yet,_ the thought echoed in Mycroft’s mind for a moment. Then he felt his jaw sag.

Looking at Sonance, he suddenly knew he had made a grave error. Now people might think Mycroft to be daft – _and by people he mostly meant his own family_ \- but he noticed more than he let on. It was partly why he had managed to build his successful career, by pretending not to be as clever as those around him while still having an eye for the details that mattered to his cases. And this, _this_ was one of those _sore revelations_ that he had managed to come upon.

_The mystery slowly started to unravel._

“Oh, Enola,” he said with a gasp while his mind swiftly was putting the puzzle pieces together. “Of course _you_ would never tell.”

He should have known, could have guessed this to have happened, much earlier. After all, he was in the department that had been approached by the dowager. _He_ ’d be the one to recommend the man. Then again, Linthorn had been a man with an impeccable reputation. Surely he wouldn't have?

He sat down behind his desk, a dazed look on his face as he stared ahead of him. _Had he been the one to initiate all this mess? Was he the reason why Sonance had come into existence?_

 _But perhaps he was wrong? Perhaps he was overhasty and reading into things because he wanted the other truth to be false?_ Even though a feeling deep down inside of him told him that this new theory must be right. He could summon Linthorn to him and ask the necessary questions, he could rifle through all the files in existence or even force an interrogation out of the man. But would he come across an honest answer? Because if this new thought was right, had Linthorn not seen the child and realised that it could be his? What would that entail? And if Sonance truly was his son, then surely the years would tell. Mycroft knew both men, Sherlock and Linthorn. If Sonance grew, he was bound to resemble one of them, right?

He bent over his desk, reaching for a quill and a piece of paper before he started to jot things down. Facts, little bits and pieces of the past that came to him unwillingly. And then he sat back again to stare at his own handwriting.

The door to his office opened and in came his assistant. He had almost forgotten that he had called for her earlier on. _Why again? Oh right, the Christmas shopping…._

“Send word to my brother that I will spend Christmas with them,” he suddenly said, turning to her sharply. He could see the surprised expression on her face and even he had to admit that what he was doing sounded awfully out of character to anyone who knew him. An unsentimental git, that was how others told him they saw him. Everybody knew that he liked to spend the holidays on his own.

Anthea nodded, but he could see the hesitation in her actions and could tell she was still surprised by what he had asked of her. She turned around to leave the room again when Mycroft called out to her, “Oh, and have our quartermaster prepare a wooden practice toy for toddlers.”

Now his pretty assistant truly came to a stop and turned to him with a frown and a look in her eyes that told him she thought he must have lost his marbles. “Excuse me, sir?” she asked, “A wooden what?”

“Gym,” Mycroft replied unshakingly, as if this was the most normal and obvious thing to ask for in the entire world and not something he had just made up on the spot. “A baby gym. A toddler skill exploration toy. You know,” he gestured with his hands. “A wooden bowed bridge with toys attached for them to practice with. We must be _innovative_ these days, Miss McAllistar. And tell him to make haste with it.”

He gave her a knowing look before he twirled his moustache between his right forefinger and thumb. She looked at him doubtingly but nodded. “I will, sir.”

As he leaned back in his chair all Mycroft thought was ‘ _Good’_. He was going to set things right, one step at a time.

\--

The wonderful scent of meats and vegetables filled Baker Street 221B. Mrs Hudson had been cooking since two days ago, making sure everything was prepared for a nice Christmas dinner. Enola had offered to help her, but in the end it had been Sherlock who had actually contributed to the cooking of the elaborated meal.

While Mrs Hudson was putting the last touches to the dishes, Enola let her fingertips slide past the fresh linen of Sonance’s bed. Everything was prepared for the evening to come. She glanced at Sonance who was toddling around the bedchamber that he shared with them. His little chubby legs a sign that he had only recently started practicing. Sherlock had effectively blocked the entrance with a chair and some crates so he couldn’t get into the living room and accidentally pull down the Christmas Tree – curtesy to Mycroft. He had the tree delivered only a day ago. _But why?_ Enola didn’t wish to guess the sudden change of heart her oldest brother seemed to have. Instead, she focused her mind on wondering what kind of parlour games Sherlock had prepared for them this evening, rather than think of the sermon she had listened to the night prior. Both she and Sherlock weren’t very Christian and they hardly ever attended church unless it was necessary to find clues for the cases they worked on. But Christmas Eve was special, and she had accompanied Mrs Hudson - at her request - while Sherlock had remained at home to look after Sonance. He hated going to church anyway.

Enola had tactfully avoided making eye contact with Tewkesbury, who sat with his mother and uncle in a special niche at the front and left side of the church. She had been at the very back with Mrs Hudson, both not wanting to gather much attention from the other churchgoers. The church had been filled to the brim and the local children had performed parts of the nativity play during the service. They had sung ‘‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ and ‘Glory to God’, while Enola had pretended to know the lyrics to any of the songs sung. At the end, they were offered mulled wine outside of the church, which they had drunk near one of the many bonfires while they talked to the other Londoners who had attended. Even then she had managed to avoid the young viscount. Even though she knew he had been casting glances at her by the flickering lights of the bonfires.

Enola had been surprised by the amount of people Mrs Hudson seemed to be acquainted with. She had her fair share of socialising that night as well, only truly knowing the midwife who had helped her, and had been dead tired when they had returned home in the early hours of the morning.

Once she was content with the way their bedchamber was left behind – ready to be slept in after a tiresome night- she picked up her son and unblocked the entrance to the room. Once inside the living room she saw Sherlock had done a marvellous job at decorating the Christmas tree. She gasped when she saw her pine cone pet nestled underneath.

“Why, would you look at that!” She exclaimed happily. “Dash? What are you doing here?” She looked up at her brother, expecting an answer. Her childhood toy had even been dusted and the spider rags removed before Sherlock had put him there. _How thoughtful of him._ She knew that he could see that she appreciated the sentiment.

“I thought he would feel at home underneath a pine tree,” Sherlock replied, shrugging slightly before he picked Sonance up in his strong arms and smiled. “Hello there, little fellow. Have you been practicing walking again?”

Enola smiled at her childhood pet, not quite seeing the sight of Sherlock holding Sonance above his head. Their little boy squeaked of joy, his arms and legs moving rapidly as Sherlock lowered him laughingly. Their foreheads touched and Sonance’s giggling grew softer before growing louder again as Sherlock lifted him above his head once more.

“That does make sense,” she whispered, pushing away the faint childhood memories that were slowly surfacing, before finally turning to look at her men. Seeing them joyful like this made her chuckle along with them. A feeling of happiness spread through her core, warm and tingling.

That was when the doorbell sounded and she glanced annoyedly at the door. _Of course he would choose that moment to come barging into their lifes…._ “That must be him,” she said, suddenly growing serious again. She dusted her hands past her skirts, thinking of what to say when she would open the door on Mycroft. _Could she maintain politeness?_

Apparently, Sherlock had no problems with their older brother’s visit. He placed Sonance on his arm and nuzzled him, their noses touching. Their chuckles had grown softer but no less mirthful.

Enola rolled her eyes. She would allow Sherlock to remain lost in that blissful moment he shared with their son while she sacrificed herself to do the dirty job. And so she went to the door and opened it to find her oldest brother standing in the rain. Droplets fell down his moustache. It was quite the sight.

“Hello dear sister,” he said before she had a chance to close the door on him – or greet him like any polite person would.

Instead, she blinked a few times as she watched the big parcels wrapped in brown paper that were clutched between Mycroft’s arms and chest. A big one to the right, between arm and hip. Two smaller ones to the left, carried upon his arm. He had managed to clutch an umbrella in between, effectively keeping the packages dry but failing to shield himself. She could not but admire him for that.

By the sight of the carriage driving away behind him, he had only just been dropped off. Yet the rain was already soaking him. She could guess that his cloak must be weighing heavier by the minute.

_Very tempting to let him stand there for a bit longer…._

“Enola?” Mycroft asked, bringing her out of her fantasies. She blinked at him.

“You brought parcels?” she said in surprise before she stepped aside to let him in. She watched as he stepped past her and left a trail of little droplets in his wake.

“Just something small for all of you,” Mycroft said as he waited for her to take his umbrella from him. Enola placed it at the bottom of the staircase to dry while Mycroft ascended the stairs with the packages still in his arms.

As they arrived at the top of the stairs, and Enola opened the door to their apartment, she eyed the biggest parcel among the gifts suspiciously.

“The bigger one is for Sonance,” Mycroft said after catching her glare. She wanted to ask whatever it could be, and why it seemed to be such a huge object – _where would they keep it? –_ but she bit her tongue.

She watched as he placed his top hat on the top of the hat-rack, then took his coat from him before she placed it underneath on one of the coat hooks. The long black coat looked oddly in place next to Sherlock’s. _Brothers indeed,_ she melancholically thought, but decided not to let him know the sight of their coats together had stirred these feelings inside of her.

Mycroft turned towards her. “The tree?”

With a nod, Enola escorted him into their living room. She still felt confused and quite frankly did not know what to think of her brother’s odd behaviour.

Carefully, Mycroft placed the packages underneath the pine tree. His touch delicate as he positioned them neatly. Then he revealed a smaller package from one of his pockets and placed it neatly on top.

“I thought we were not to have any presents?” Enola hesitatingly said. “I mean, we have got you none, so-“

“Don’t apologise, sister.” Mycroft’s face was hidden from her, turned towards the tree as he placed the packages underneath. Once he was done he clapped his hands on his knees before he pushed himself up. And then, after swirling his moustache, he turned towards her with a small smile. “I felt like doing something different this year.”

She saw his eyes wander towards her pine cone pet that Sherlock had placed underneath the tree, and saw his eyebrows draw together studiously. _So he had remembered?_ But then what was that odd look for? _Did he disapprove of her love for her childhood toy ? Did he disapprove of everything she had done or loved ever?_

“I don’t remember those parts of the decoration.” Sherlock’s low voice sounded, making Enola jump in surprise. She had not noticed that he had come to stand behind her. His blue eyes rested upon the gifts that had been placed underneath. He had placed both hands on his hips. Sonance was next to him on the floor, pulling himself up against Sherlock’s leg. His tiny fists clawed in the fabric of his trousers.

“It seems that Santa has brought us some gifts,” Mycroft nonchalantly said before his eyes softened and his shoulders became less tense. “Good to see you, brother.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock replied.

Enola could sense that they were used to give each other a hug here – albeit it being one of their rigid and awkward ones. But somehow they both refrained – which was perhaps even more awkward. No doubt Mycroft still thought Sherlock had truly lain hands upon her, and Sherlock respected the distance their older brother had decided to keep. She was about to break the awkward quietness when she noticed that Sonance had picked up her pine cone toy and was trying to walk with it. It was hard to suppress a chuckle upon the sight.

Upon her giggling, her brothers’ eyes went to Sonance toddling around and she could see how Mycroft’s gaze softened. So he wasn’t disapproving of the toy then? Whatever had his gaze earlier on meant?

The sound of footsteps on the staircase signalled Mrs Hudson’s arrival. She opened the door with her shoulder, using her foot to close it, for her hands were occupied carrying a large tray filled with pans. “I hope you don’t mind if we finish the last part of the meal here?” she asked, sounding a bit worried.

But Sherlock shook his head. “No, not at all,” he said, earning a sigh of relief from their landlady.

She followed him to their kitchen where she placed all the little pots and pans before she came out to greet Mycroft. The hour that followed was filled with small talk and with Enola bouncing Sonance on her arm while Mycroft watched him intently. In the end, his intense gaze made her feel so itchy that she could stand it no longer and offered him whether he wanted to hold her son.

He wanted to.

Sonance actually sat on his uncle’s knee and both looked content. Enola felt a slight jab of jealousy at this, knowing that Mycroft was enjoying the interaction with her son and that her son liked it in turn. _How?_ But when Sherlock entered the room and conversation turned to technical matters, and Sonance was still content sitting on his uncle’s lap, she left the couch with a sigh to help Mrs Hudson in the kitchen.

She only returned to the living room when it was to bring cookies and tea, entering upon the sight of the two brothers engaged in a deep conversation about unsolved mysteries. She sat down with them to listen in on their conversation, finding the topic fascinating. She listened breathlessly until Mycroft suggested it was time for them to open the gifts. Sherlock was surprised to find a deerstalker hat in his and eyed his brother inquiringly. But Mycroft shrugged and said that he knew Sherlock liked to collect hats and probably wouldn’t have one of these yet. He was right, Enola knew.

Her own package contained an expensive looking foldable desk easel with a blank canvas, paint and a brush included. She looked up at him in surprise. Not in a million years would she have expected such a gift from him. But he merely stared back at her and claimed that he knew she liked to draw and that perhaps she wanted to try her hand at painting, now that she was a stay-at-home-mum.

She contested him on this, claiming she got out and about a lot to work her job. But she still blushed and put the easel on her lap to admire it. It was foldable and had a handle to carry it around with. She could even take this outside to a case. As if Mycroft had thought about this.  
  
There was also a small package for Mrs Hudson. Mycroft had been informed that she would be here to celebrate with them and he had remembered it well. Her gift contained a silver necklace which she donned instantly and with loud gasps of admiration. Mycroft said she looked ten years younger wearing it, and Mrs Hudson conceded that she indeed felt like she was.

And then it was Sonance’s turn. The biggest package of all was given to him.

Sherlock knelt down next to him to help, but Sonance seemed to be properly skilled at unravelling the package. And out came a wooden bowed bridge. Attached to it were toys. Some stuffed, some wood, some brass. She recognised a spyglass and a toy compass. A fake clock was drawn upon the side with actual moving clock arms. Her lips parted and her brows knitted in confusion.

“What is it?” she asked curiously. “Is it a toy?”

But Sherlock was already bent over it, prodding several of the objects and humming approvingly. Sonance didn’t need any permission of his parents started exploring the new massive toy. He held onto the bow which was a perfect height for him and which had such a solidly built frame that it wouldn’t fall over easily, and then carefully moved sideways from one dangling toy to the next.

“I think this is the newest and most modern toy our era has to offer,” Mycroft boasted. Mrs Hudson laughed while Sherlock seemed genuinely impressed by the gift.

And so was she. Enola didn’t know what had happened, but this wasn’t the Mycroft she thought she knew. _Was this truly the man who had wanted to send her away to some kind of ladies school? Who had thought her to be a nuisance? Unruly? Wild? Had someone hypnotised him? Had he found a woman to love who had softened his personality? What was up?_

She was determined to find out.

She waited until Mrs Hudson had gone to the kitchen. Sherlock followed her after he made sure that Sonance was busy exploring his new toy.

Mycroft stood beside the tree, studying the few glass and wooden figures that Sherlock had hung between the twigs when Enola came to stand by his side. Although she wasn’t looking at him directly, he knew her whispered words were directed towards him.

“It’s too much, Mycroft,” Enola said. “Why did you?”

Mycroft glanced at her, but upon finding her eyes upon her young son, his own gaze travelled to him as well. “Let’s just say that the boy deserves it, sister,” he replied.

“And I?” she asked in a whisper. “The easel? The hat? Even Mrs Hudson’s necklace?”

When Mycroft did not reply, Enola frowned. She looked at her brother and followed his gaze, which she found was still fixed upon her young son. _Guilt_. She thought with a start. _Pain._ It suddenly felt hard to breathe. She saw by the lines on his face that signalled pity and compassion – both emotions she had hardly ever seen from him – that he had somehow discovered something that made him feel pity towards her. And what could that be but for him finding out some aspect of the truth, if not all of it? _How he had found out_? She couldn’t tell. Their mother? The files? Had he found out by investigating like she had? 

She stared at him, unsure of what to say next, but he turned to smile at her before brushing past her and making his way to their kitchen. “Ah, Sherlock,” she heard him say, their private talk officially having ended. 

As she reached for her chest and clutched the fabric of her dress in her hand in an attempt to breathe – it was as if she was drowning all over again - she suddenly heard the curious voice of Mrs Hudson near her. “Are you all right, dear?” _Had she truly been out of it?_

She looked up to see their landlady stand in front of her, Sonance on her arm. Forgetting all disastrous thoughts and feeling her worry slip away, she smiled at them both. It was a true, genuine smile. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, her eyes never leaving Sonance’s cheerful little face. “I’m definitely fine.”

She took Sonance from Mrs Hudson and held him close, nuzzling his hair and taking a deep breath. His scent was familiar, relaxing and sweet. _Who cares what Mycroft knew or thought he knew?_ Their evening would be filled with her son’s joyful laughter and the sweet promise of fine food and merry games.

In the end, her son was bringing her family together, not tearing them apart.

Enola was looking forward to the new year, which promised to be full of moments she could share with her family.

[___](https://ibb.co/Qc2zpbm)

Bonus:

[ ](https://ibb.co/Qc2zpbm)   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, a new year is upon them.


	17. How New Year's Eve was spent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the year has come to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! May it be so much better than 2020 (or this chapter of this fic).

\--

17

\--

Sherlock ducked as he entered his own home, successfully avoiding the cake that came swooshing by and hit the door as it fell shut. He dodged elegantly, looking up at Enola with an eyebrow raised in question as he heard the splash behind him. She just shrugged.

“Don’t these traditions tire you?” Sherlock asked, watching as Enola dusted her hands on her skirts from the crumbs. She walked over to him and picked up the splattered cake, tasting part of what had been on top and hadn’t touched the floorboards.

She removed her finger from her lips with a loud pop, completely failing to notice how the gesture had her older brother’s eyes darken. His gaze was fixated upon her lips, following the movements as she licked her lips approvingly and hummed.

“We don’t have an auntie, but we are allowed to use the fruitcake made by Mrs Hudson’s aunt instead. I guess that does count,” she said, turning fully towards her brother. Seeing him here like this, on the last day of the year, standing in front of her all smartly dressed with his umbrella in his hand and a small package in the other – the scent of which being utterly delicious! She loved him. She knew that. He was by far her favourite brother, even if Mycroft had made amends with his gifts. Her eyes drifted towards her son playing with his newest toy – an invention by Mycroft’s department. Sonance was happy. And so was she.

Enola smiled brightly up at Sherlock.

“It’s a sin to waste good food,” he started, but she cut him off with a throaty laugh. While she placed her hips she shook her head.

“Keyword being _tasty_ ,” she said with a chuckle. “Come on, give it a go. This cake was made to be thrown and chase away evil spirits.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but kneeled down to have a taste of the top layer of the splashed cake anyway. “The tradition is to ensure a year without hunger,” he said as he bent through his knees, “not to chase away bad spirits.”

“Good food and plenty of tasty things,” Enola said, waving her right hand about dramatically. “Good _spirits_ are surely among them, so in a sense, I am right.” She grinned at Sherlock, relishing in her victory when she saw his face contort upon tasting Mrs Hudson’s aunt’s cake.

“Alcohol was not part of the fine food arrangement last time I-“ Sherlock started, but then his face twisted. “Yuck, you made it look like it was good,” he said, tongue still out of his mouth as he rose again.

Enola just chuckled behind her hand. She watched with mirth as her brother looked around him. He was eyeing their apartment suspiciously, as if he expected her to have done a number on it. But luckily for him, she hadn’t been following _all_ traditions.

To their right, Sonance made a few hurried steps. He was getting the hang of walking much faster than Enola had anticipated, and had taken her pine cone pet as his own. Unfortunately, Dash had hit his head against the leg of the table and had been chipped. It had upset Enola enough to complain about it and hide Dash somewhere high and buried so that Sonance couldn’t reach it nor be tempted by it. Sherlock had said she was being sentimental, but in the end he had cooperated and hidden Dash for her – because she couldn’t reach as high as she wanted him to be.

Now, Sonance held a replacement pet. A new pine cone, with a small acorn attached to it, and a rope for him to pull and have the pet ‘walk’ with him around their apartment. Currently, this new pet, who had yet to be given a name, was accompanying him on his round around the baby gym.

As he walked, a suspicious sound could be heard that had Sherlock raise both his eyebrows – not just the one. His blue eyes slid towards their son and identified him as the source.

“And what is that jingling noise?” he asked, sceptically.

Enola looked at him like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. “That’s Sonance.”

“Sonance?’ Sherlock asked in surprise.

“Yes.”

“Sonance?” Sherlock asked her again, the silent ‘why on earth do I hear coins jingle in his pocket’ was left unspoken, but Enola recognised the question all the same.

“Tradition,” she simply replied, moving her hand in her own pocket to jingle her own coins. “At home, mum and me would carry coins in our pockets when the old year blends into the new. And I thought, since you were out and about to buy us some meat pies that you already had some in yours.”

“I’ve spend it all,” Sherlock deadpanned and Enola pressed her lips close instantly.

“Oh,” she then said, before shaking the coins in her pocket again. “Well, you had them….”

Sherlock didn’t know whether to roll his eyes or laugh. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Enola pressed her lips into a thin line and glared at him.

 _Bad luck_ , her eyes said, and Sherlock groaned and reached for her skirts. His hand slid in between the seams, hotly joining hers. She felt his fingers brush past her own, his skin warm against hers, his fingertips calloused against her softer ones, before he retracted it with a coin pinched between them. The coin was slid elegantly into his own pocket, and that was that.

“Enola, of all the things I expected of you, being traditional isn’t one of them at all.”

“I’m not,” she said, folding her arms in front of her chest. “Well, not usually. But I thought with all our bad luck, a little bit of –“

"Make-believe,” Sherlock said, “is not going to help us become better off. Besides, we both have prospering jobs, we have a son, what has gone so awfully wrong this year that you like to forget?”

She looked at him and had to agree that he was right. The Viscount’s case, the conceiving of Sonance, that had all been the year prior. This year, all had been going well for them. Sherlock had brought many mysteries to light alongside of her, they had solved important cases – granted, many had been given to them to examine by Mycroft and Lestrade and were a result of Sherlock having been blackmailed into it, _but still_. All seemed to be going well. She had reconnected with her family. Her mother had promised to return to them for important celebrations such as their birthdays and Mycroft had promised to visit them more often.

“To go along with all these nonsensical traditions....,” Sherlock bristled as he stepped over the cake and placed the package on the table. Sonance came toddling over to him and cried out ‘daddy’ before giving Sherlock’s leg a tight hug. It was quite an endearing sight.

Sherlock laughed at this before saying “hi, little fellow,” and picking him up. With his son heavy upon his arm, he studied him. How rapidly the boy was growing. How well fed and happy he looked. _Yep, they were doing a fine job this year._

“I didn’t stick to _all_ traditions,” Enola said in her defence. “I didn’t clean up the house, after all.”

“Enola, cleaning up our house is a massive task no one could undertake in a day,” glancing around their living room, she had to admit that her brother was right. Their house was a big mess.

“Forget superstition,” he said, holding out an arm for her. She took the invitation and stepped closer, allowing him to capture her in an embrace as he pulled her close to his chest. With Enola pressed to his side and Sonance on his other arm, he felt content. This was home. This was a life worth living for. “we’re doing just fine.” Sherlock said. “More than just fine.”

Enola’s eyes seemed to glow in the flickering lights of the hearth and oil lamps. She placed her head upon his chest and smiled.

“I heard somewhere, that wearing your knickers inside out is supposed to bring good luck-“

“Enola?”

“Just kidding, Sherlock. Just kidding.”

They laughed, unaware that across the waters, someone was thinking of Enola – and how to get to her.

\--

There were three hundred and sixty Enola’s he had come across. The name happened to be not as rare as he had thought. Linthorn sat back, overlooking the city of Paris. New year’s eve, one traditionally celebrated in a pub somewhere in the United Kingdom, with fellow colleagues or neighbours. But this year, it was spent far away from his own bed and home ash he was on a mission to prove himself.

In France. Of all places.

He felt like he was in the heart of the lion’s den.

Of course he had been sent to take out an enemy of England, once again. This time, he knew he had to be more careful. He really needed this job, needed the money to keep up his life standards. Especially if he wanted to maintain a cosy home big enough to house a wife and a child.

_Could it be his?_

The thought raced through his head and had been since the day he'd seen the painting. _Was the child Mycroft’s? Or that of another man? Or-?_ Linthorn tried not to think of this. He needed to know more before he could draw conclusions like this. But the notion still tickled his mind. It took his fancy. It made his heart swell and bleed at the same time.

_Dread it._

_Enola_. Her name was a whisper in his mind, a cool breeze keeping him on track.

He remembered seeing her for the very first time. A boy on the train. Except she was definitely not a boy. She had curves that betrayed her. And she had courage he had seldomly seen in a woman.

Seeing her again, walking through the London streets in her red dress, he had assumed she had been a woman of easy virtue. It would explain her boy’s outfit. She might be the viscount’s secret paramour, having helped him escape while dressed in clothes as boy – clothes she would not doubt possess with her profession.

But then she had proven him wrong, and terribly so.

And seeing her that final time, he had been both thrilled and scared. Thrilled because she was there and he could almost touch her, smell her, hold her. But at the same time her presence was a nuisance. Apart from being a distraction to his senses, she was also in danger of standing in the way. And by then, he had decided that he definitely did not want to kill her. She was the woman he had grown to love – by the way she haunted his mind, had instilled herself in all of his fantasies, had overridden all of his senses. She was in his smell, in his eyes, in his ears, in his thoughts and in his heart and it hurt to have her everywhere but nowhere at the same time.

_So why had she been there?_

Of course she had to be there. _Life wouldn’t deal him a card of kindness._

To ensure her safety, he had aimed deliberately at the empty columns to make her and the viscount run. He successfully separated the two. It had worked. Enola had come at him, the viscount had shielded himself. Linthorn had aimed to miss, his only intent scaring her away. But like before she wasn’t easily scared. And instead of running to safety, she came at him.

He had knocked her down, thinking that she would be out of it long enough to finish the job. _She should have hit him harder, he liked the pain after all, and it would have saved him from having to hit her. He did not know whether he liked delivering the blow to her that had smacked her to the ground. He might have enjoyed it in the past._ He would make sure she would remain unharmed afterwards, had intended to barge with the dowager and find a way of convincing the young woman that staying with him was in her best of interests. He would have done anything to ensure her safety _and_ to make her see him for who he was. Living without her had become seemingly impossible. _That death blow should have been his saving grace._

He didn’t have a thought-through plan, but he did have the intention to keep her alive and by his side. But all those intentions came crashing down when she did a move he _could not_ have expected, and which nearly knocked the life out of him.

He remembered her hands upon his leg.

Her legs around his body.

The sharp pain of the wooden acorn – or was it a pine cone? – that his head had been smashed upon, and the blurriness of his sight as he thought he blew out his final breath.

_With her above him. Her face, the anger in her eyes, the soft swell of her breasts as they heaved with heavy breathing._

_How on earth had he survived?_

Thinking of the painting with her on it, he wondered if this is what they called God’s intervention.

He smirked a sardonic smirk. “God’s intervention indeed.” _What a foul game destiny is playing,_ he thought, the watch on his desk ticking midnight. _What had he remained alive for?_ But then he knew. _Her. The child_. 

As the fireworks started and light flashes filled the sky, he fell to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, someone made a discovery.
> 
> AN: Some of the traditions above apparently were true Victorian traditions. :) I tried to research the history of fireworks, but unfortunately, there weren't any records I could find regarding old and new. Seeing as fireworks were used to celebrate special events - most notably at Versailles, but still hey!- in France for several centuries by then, I took the liberty to add this to the tale.


	18. How a man forgot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time Jump, Sherlock and Enola have been solving cases to everyone's content. Sonance is growing up to be a lovely boy. Everything's fine, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: The pace has slowed down, work has caught up, I am going to finish this tale though. It has so much potential for so many sideplots. Ugh! I want to write so much more than I will. I know this, because I have other tales to finish as well. I am also being pestered by a Torchwood reader-insert idea. haven't decided yet whether to write that one and share it here. Prompts for this fandom may be send to me here in the comments, or on my instagram, to help me decide what to write next. But first, there'll be several chapters to go still. Bear with me!

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

\--

18

\--

“Sherlock? Sherlock, have you seen my necklace?” Enola came twirling through the doorway and hurled herself into the kitchen where Sherlock stood, preparing their lunch. He raised a brow.

“Your necklace?” He asked, sounding sceptical.

Now here’s the breakdown of it all: Sherlock knew that Enola hardly ever wore jewellery, which explains his reply. But the other part of his reaction, the stoically staring at her part like a frozen statue, that was down to the thoughts swirling more and more often in his head whenever he saw her. And just like now, he thought her to look like a goddess. The way she turned round the corner and had her long hair flail behind her like a tempting fairy. Her lips parted in exasperation, pink and full and kissable. The tiny frown when he did not reply to her content, how he wanted to kiss that frown away! The rise and fall of her chest as she was breathing rapidly, the way he saw the swell of her breasts peeking out of her dress. _Good Gosh._ Their tiny apartment grew a few degrees hotter by the sight of her. _How was he to react?_ He was a man after all. A man who was desperately trying to hide the effect ‘his wife’ had on him.

“Yes, the heart one,” when she saw her brother look at her blankly she let out an exasperated sigh and threw her hands up in the air with it. “The _only_ one I have?”

 _That old thing?_ Sherlock thought, but he didn’t say so out loud. He hated the necklace to be truthful. It looked well on her, that wasn’t the reason for his dislike. The sole reason being she had bought it during her investigation on the Tewkesbury case. And anyone with a mind can deduct why that fact would leave a nasty taste on Sherlock’s palate. “ _Whatever_ do you need it for?”

Enola groaned in frustration and brushed past him, deliberately, to look at the mess on the kitchen counter. But except papers, a quill and several food items and cutlery, there seemed to be no necklace. She did pick up a dark piece of string, but it wasn’t what she sought.

Sherlock in the meanwhile had closed his eyes. The brush of her body against his, deliberate or by accident, had sent tingles of pleasure down his body. He tried to steady his breathing, tried to focus on the case ahead, but his mind and body did not agree.

Living together with Enola had become increasingly difficult these days.

He knew how the situation was. But despite his brilliance, he had a fault. Whenever things became traumatic or downright bad, he would rewrite the memories or store them away in these little chambers inside his head. And these past few years, that exact thing had happened.

Living with Enola had become the standard. He expected to come home to her. He expected to sleep in the same bed as her, their bodies pressed against one another. He expected to breathe her scent or feel her hair tickle his nose during the night. He expected her support during a case, verbal and physically. He expected her to choose his side whatever went on. He expected her in the role of a wife.

The role he had invented for her.

The role she had knowingly taken upon herself to avoid public scandal and isolation.

And now, with a recent series of crimes that had presented to be true challenges to him, Sherlock found that he had somehow, unknowingly to himself, muffled away the fact that Enola was actually his _younger sister_. Instead, he started to fully believe that she was his wife. She pretended to be so, right? Everyone knew her to be so, right? He would be in his right to touch her, right? Then why did he have this feeling bothering him? This tiny nagging voice that told him to keep his distance from her? 

And it wasn’t like Sonance hadn’t been asking for a baby brother or sister these past few months, right?

“I need it for the case.” She halted. “The case, remember? Our case? Today? Or do you not want me to look like a lady?”

“Enola, no matter what you wear, you are _my_ lady.”

Enola let out a nervous laugh. She had evidently caught the way he had said ‘my’ in a low and husky voice. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to hide his possessiveness. Just like he hadn’t bothered to hide his need for her as time passed by. It became clearer and clearer to her that he was putting his feelings upon the table.

And so far, Enola hadn’t openly discouraged him. But this? This tactic of her to laugh things away whenever he let some of his true feelings slip? Sherlock thought it was getting _old_. And he was losing his patience.

“A lady! He says! Sometimes I wonder if you truly know me after these five years!”

Sherlock looked straight at her. His blueish eyes darkening as they rested upon her petite frame. Her curves had settled well. Her body having developed nicely and shapely after the birthing of their son. But more importantly, she had actually grown up in these past few years. Not just because she had to be a mother, but because she had grown older. The childlike features of her face had dimmed and been replaced with those of a young woman. She was twenty-one now. Twenty-one! And in no way resembled a child any longer. When she had come here, at sixteen years of age, even her pregnancy hadn’t been able to hide the fact that she was still _so_ young. But now she was a woman. And how could he not---?

“Sherlock? Are you even listening to me?” She waved her hand in front of his face and frowned at him worriedly. “Is _he_ taking up your mind again?”

He frowned at her and had to take a moment to realise who it was she must be talking about. But he shook his head and pressed his lips tightly shut. “No,” and he wasn’t lying. They didn’t know the name of the culprit who had been behind their most recent case. Distressing as it was, they had encountered a few criminals who seemed to be working for the same man. A man who remained anonymous to them, a mystery. And no matter how much Sherlock and Enola enjoyed mysteries, this was a man whose genius seemed to match theirs.

Enola seemed to be strong enough to let go of things. She managed to forget about the criminal mastermind during the days. She didn’t seem to mind whether he was behind one of their new mysteries to solve, as long as she got to solve it. However, Sherlock had become obsessed with this new mastermind. Cases that the unnamed criminal was not involved in bored him. He eagerly awaited a signal from the new man, loved the way the unnamed genius seemed to be throwing clues around to mislead Sherlock.

“Oh, please,” Enola rolled her eyes and turned the corner. Sherlock was contemplating on following her when their son appeared in the doorway.

“Daddy?” Sonance had grown quite rapidly. It was clear that whoever had been his father had been taller than his sister. The boy had grown up slender, tall for a child of his age, with deep brown eyes and the brown curly hair of his mother. He was a pretty child, as people liked to remind them. Pretty, well-behaved and timid.

A relief in a way to Enola. She had been afraid of how the boy’s personality would develop. Him being a Holmes after all – _not to mention the biological father’s profession_. But instead of being hyperactive and disobedient, like Enola and Mycroft had been as children, or as annoyingly stubborn as Sherlock, the boy developed as a quiet, content child. Sonance observed, he asked questions in a soft voice, he followed his parents’ instructions and hardly ever complained.

Sherlock looked down at his boy and felt a warmth fill his chest. It was easy to forget that Sonance wasn’t actually his. Too easy. Anyone who saw them believed them to be a proper family. And even Sherlock believed Sonance to be his, despite knowing differently. The boy was so familiar, so much like the child he never had known he would have wanted to have. Life was complicated like that.

“Don’t mind your mother,” he replied, seeing Sonance’s questioning eyes. “She’s looking for a necklace.”

“The one with the heart? Her only one?” Sonance looked back up at him. No smile on his face, no judgement either. A bit of blank stare, much like Sherlock’s own.

“The very same,” Sherlock said, his voice low but gentle.

“The only one mum has,” Sonance complied.

The two looked at each other in silence for a moment, then Sonance turned around and went over to one of the wooden cabinets to rummage through it’s upper drawer. He took out the necklace that Enola had been looking for and walked back to Sherlock to place the necklace in his hand.

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, a bit stunned by the simplicity with which his son had retrieved the item.

Sonance just flashed him a small smile and then turned around to head to their -still shared- bedroom. “I’ll go tell mum you’ve found it,” he said, then disappeared from view.

Sherlock stared at the empty spot Sonance had been standing. Then he glimpsed at the necklace in his hand. Life was odd, he thought with a sigh. His fingers curled around the necklace, his fingertips feeling the roughness of the black string and the coldness of the silver heart-shaped pendant.

“Enola,” his feelings for her ran deep. Soon, he would not be able to deny them any longer. Soon, he would forget fully that she was never truly his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Eudoria Holmes takes her daughter somewhere interesting.


End file.
